


not enough to feel the lack

by restlesslikeme



Series: ribs verse [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), Character Study, Closeted Character, Eddie Lives, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Mostly Fluff, Sharing a Bed, set between movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-10-29 15:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20799029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restlesslikeme/pseuds/restlesslikeme
Summary: More than 10 years after leaving Derry as fast as his legs could carry him, Richie is back in town promoting his rising career in comedy. A death in the family has brought an old friend back, too.--Or: Richie and Eddie get a few weeks of the sweet summer romance they (and we) deserved.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> edit: as of 10/13/2019, this is now complete!
> 
> Please note that although Richie's internalized homophobia is a running background theme, there's no explicit upsetting homophobia (confrontations/violence/use of slurs etc.) dealt with within this fic. 
> 
> This is set before the final confrontation in IT: Chapter 2, which means that Richie and Eddie are about 30, and Pennywise is still dormant. Basically... what if the canon let 'em kiss.

Aside from the scraped, worn paint on the sign as he drives into town, Derry itself doesn’t seem to change. The streetlights, dim in the cloudy grey of the afternoon, don’t look like they’ve been serviced since the seventies. There’d been the hope that passing that barrier would bring some kind of relief from his paranoia -- evidence that whatever weird, shitty anxiety this whole thing had left him with was baseless.

He is, after all, probably the second biggest person to come out of this godforsaken town in the last fifty years. That’s what’s dragged him back here in the first place -- network decisions above his head, some stupid little bit they want tacked onto the new special when it comes out next year. He’d made the mistake of distractedly blurting out where he’d come from, and hadn’t been given the opportunity to take it back -- to make up some other dingy little town, on some other dingy little coast. 

It should be a lion’s homecoming; like some kind of smug victory against this place that seems more like a waking dream than a hometown. Instead, as he parks his car in the parking lot of the inn, drags out his suitcase across the pavement, and slams the door shut behind him, Richie’s stomach turns.

Ten years later and Derry still makes him feel horribly, gratingly small.

\--

The inn is a shithole. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, given the state of the rest of the town, but the point still stands. On his first night in the doorknob to his room falls off in Richie’s hand, and the bathroom faucet refuses to do more than spit. 

He’s the only guest, and he’s seen the innkeeper precisely once since he got in. After his third time checking the desk to ask for a room change, he gets fed up and swaps his key for one down the hall on his own. 

“You’d think they’d set up a Holiday inn or some shit,” Richie complains, ignoring his father’s halfhearted look of admonition from across the table. “I’ll be lucky to make it to next week when the film crew shows up without the ceiling collapsing on me in my sleep. That’d make a great opening shot for the special, huh. My head... splattered all over the pillow. They can release it in memoriam.”

“Richie,” There’s a smile hidden in the corner of his dad’s mouth, quickly covered up by his coffee cup. 

“There’s a few houses up for sale in the neighborhood,” his mother says, eager to change the subject away from head trauma and bedbugs. “Since you’re so averse to staying at the inn. You could have your own space for when you come home to visit.”

“I’m not buying a house in Derry, Mom.”

“City council keeps hoping that Billy Denbrough will buy up some of the property,” she continues, as if she hadn’t even heard him. “They think it would be a great boost for tourism. You remember your friend Bill? He’s the author now.”

Tapping his thumb against the table, Richie tries to sort through fuzzy, half remembered faces in his head. There’s a surge of guilt that crawls up his throat like bile, and he frowns, taken offguard as he tries to swallow it down. 

“I still don’t know why you never kept in touch with those kids,” she sighs. “You used to be so close.”

Richie snorts, gulps down coffee like it might wash down the tight feeling in his throat. 

A voice in his head: _ How many of your parents are still friends with the people they knew in middle school? _

\--

On day four in Derry, the film crew arrives. They’re staying at a Motel 6 just outside of town, and Richie finds himself jealous every time a gopher bitches about the springs poking through the mattress. 

“You never told me you lived in such a cute little corner of bumfuck nowhere,” his manager says, shoving a bag of croissants into Richie’s hand while someone else blotches powder into his sweaty forehead. The buzz of production against the backdrop of Derry High is giving Richie cognitive dissonance. “You really never came back? Christmas? Channukah?”

“I fly the ‘rents out at least once a year,” Richie replies distractedly, squinting against a particularly intrusive makeup brush and shoving a croissant in his mouth. “I’ve been tryin’ to convince them to move to Florida like respectable middle class fogeys but I haven’t made any head way yet,” With his mouth full, Richie scowls, “Why the fuck would I leave California for this? It’s depressing as shit.” 

To an outsider, he has to admit the place might have a certain kind of backwards charm. Especially now -- summer is just beginning to fade into fall, and the last of the August visitors are just stragglers to make the place look friendly and lived in. It’s like a postcard, and about as flat -- something for people like this to look at, and hum wistfully over, before going back to the dirt and sleaze of the city. Somewhere to run from, not to.

“Rich,” someone calls to the left. “We’re gonna start shooting in five.”

\--

The annoying thing about all of this, is that they only need Richie around for about a grand total of 45 minutes of the day, but the time spent in between those 45 minutes is completely random and immeasurable. It’s almost enough to make him wish he’d taken the production company up on their first idea -- do the show itself in Derry, and film that. 

Almost, but not quite. 

He’s busy weighing the pros and cons of that particular nightmare scenario in his head as he pulls up on the main street. Doing stand up in the auditorium of the high school (the only viable gathering place in the entire town, host to town meetings and two bit talent shows alike) literally sounds like something he’s woken up in a cold sweat from at some point. He’s finding that being here is stirring up all kinds of little things like that -- memories and anxieties he’d forgotten about.

The team has let him off the hook for the rest of the afternoon, and hanging around the empty inn is starting to feel a little pathetic, even for him. He’s not paying attention as he parks the car -- terribly --and slams the door shut. 

“Hey asshole!” 

Richie doesn’t turn, waving his fistful of keys over his shoulder dismissively.

“Just ticket me,” he calls back, keys jangling. “I’ll pay the fine. But don’t tow it -- it’d be a headache for everyone!”

The hand that grabs his arm is surprisingly firm for a meter maid, and instinctively Richie bristles. The last thing he needs is some asshole small town cop getting on his case while he’s here, although that’d just figure. Stopping in his tracks, Richie digs up an apologetic grin.

“Look, man,” he starts, raising his hands in mock surrender. The grip on his elbow doesn’t let up. “There isn’t a no parking sign, so if I’ve done something wrong --”

“Done something wrong?” comes the reply, tight and fast with disbelief. “Your ugly-ass car is completely blocking me in!”

Whatever comes after that, Richie doesn’t hear. Lightning strikes, his heart drops to his stomach, and for a split second, all he can do is gape as he gets reprimanded.

“Eddie?” he interrupts finally, his voice ringing in his own ears. Jesus, how long has it been? “Eddie Kaspbrak?”

Suddenly it seems absurd that he couldn’t place the name with Eddie here in front of him. He almost wants to laugh, except for how dry his throat feels. Eddie’s hand loosens in the material of Richie’s shirt, as if the sound of his own name is enough to break through the spell of his bitching, and for a second they must look like a pair -- staring at each other in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Richie?”

“Holy shit,” Richie laughs, using Eddie’s now limp grip on his arm to pull him in close. He smells like soap when Richie hugs him, the scent of it overwhelmingly familiar in a way that makes him both giddy and awfully self conscious. What does he smell like, after these constant shoots? Sweat? Someone else’s cigarettes? “Holy shit, man.”

When they pull apart, Eddie is smiling, a little unsure, and Richie feels dazed. 

“I think you grew like, a whole half an inch since the last time I saw you,” he goads, before the tight feeling that’s suddenly filling his chest can take over his brain too. Eddie scowls sharply, and Richie presses on before he can argue: 

“You want to get a drink?”

\--

Tucked away under the bleachers, Richie almost misses him. It’s just the toe of Eddie’s shoe, too white and unscuffed for someone who’s supposed to have run the mile today, that gives him away. Of course. Sliding his backpack off his shoulder, Richie has to hunch down to meet him.

“_Ahem_, excuse me dear sir,” he drawls, adjusting his glasses to go along with the exaggerated accent. “Is this seat taken?”

Eddie doesn’t answer, but he does shuffle over, pulling his knees up to his chest as Richie scoots in next to him. He looks relatively unscathed -- there’s a cut over his eye from a week old encounter with Bowers, but no new scrapes or bruises that Richie can see in his quick inventory. Which means he’s either gotten faster, or that it isn’t those goons that have him cornered under here to begin with.

“What’s up buttercup?”

“Fucking Thompson wouldn’t take my doctor’s note,” Eddie explains bitterly, picking up a stick and stabbing at the dirt next to him. His voice is quick and defensive like he’s been arguing already. “Was gonna make me run anyways, even though he _ knows --” _

“About the inhaler and shit,” Richie finishes. “What a dickhead. You call your mom?”

“I don’t want her to come down here again,” Eddie answers miserably. “And if I go home sick she’ll put me in emerg til next week.”

“It would be a hassle to have to roll her back home,” Richie agrees sympathetically, earning him a swat on the head that he’s not quick enough to dodge. “Ow! Hey!”

Instead of retaliating, Richie pulls his backpack up between his legs, undoes the zipper and starts to rummage. He doesn’t miss the way Eddie watches from the corner of his eye, curious and more than a little bit suspicious, which makes the victory even sweeter when Richie feels plastic crinkle under his fingers.

“My mom got the good shit, so I grabbed extra from the pantry for you,” he says simply, tossing a package of snack cakes into Eddie’s lap, and offering out a can of cream soda. “But I figured Bill would be all -- _ did you buh-bring enough for the class? _ So I didn’t wanna give it to you at lunch. Here. Take it!”

The storm over Eddie’s face has cleared and he does take it, even foregoing the usual second of hesitation he always takes to read the ingredients on the back. His mom’s weird shit has carried over to food lately; they spent the entire weekend purging the house of any sugar, loading up trash bags full of it while she bossed them around from the couch.

Richie doesn’t expect it to last long, but for the time being he’s made it his duty to treat Eddie like a refugee in the war on fun.

“You know this shit gives you stomach cancer,” Eddie says anyways, like he really just can’t help himself even as he’s popping the tab on the can. 

“Maybe,” Richie replies, leaning into his side and breaking into his own snacks. He’s going to miss his next class, and if they call home his mom will be pissed, but it’s hard for Richie to care. Eddie’s slurping soda like he’s just been offered the solution to all his problems, the trials of gym class forgotten. “Worth it though.”

\--

The closest bar’s a little honky tonk dive, but Richie doesn’t mind. It’s still early, so the place is dead, and the waitress is a cute young thing who gets him to sign a napkin, but otherwise doesn’t hover around them too much. 

“So what, you’re some kind of fucking big shot now?” Eddie asks after she leaves, taking a gulp of his pint that looks like it stings on the way down. Richie can’t read his expression, but he doesn’t think it’s actual malice, so he leans into the attention. “The fuck are you doing back in _ Derry _, then?”

Eddie looks... exactly like how Richie would have pictured him. He’s still small, still so serious and so wound up. His collar is buttoned too high and there are bags under his eyes, but there’s no ring on his left hand and the freckles scattered across his cheek haven’t faded with age. The sight of him makes Richie’s pulse race in a way that he’d forgotten it did.

“I’m filming!” Richie laughs, finally finding some glee in that. Since he’s been here it’s felt like humiliation -- like his new life looking in at this old one he abandoned. Now, with Eddie in front of him, it feels like the other way round, like having something to show for himself. “Fucked up, right? I’m doing this like -- special. Before the tour next year. Uh, it’s not a big deal. What about you, huh?”

He reaches across the table, jostling Eddie’s shoulder.

“Don’t tell me you never left,” he needles, excitement making him run his mouth. “You and your ma finally open that motel, Normie? Lemme tell you, taxidermy or not, it’s gotta be better than the fuckin’ place I’m staying --”

Eddie doesn’t scowl or smack him. Instead, he goes tense under Richie’s touch, his dark eyes going wide and hurt for a split second before he jerks away.

“My mom’s dead,” he interrupts sharply, setting his jaw. “You fucking jackass -- unfuckingbelievable.”

Shit.

“You’re kidding,” Richie says, even though it’s obvious that he isn’t. His hand feels cold, hovering where it was closed over Eddie’s shoulder a moment before. “Come on, man.”

“Why the fuck would I be kidding about that? Yeah, Richie, I’m kidding. Jokes on you!” he scoffs, sitting back in the booth and crossing his arms across his chest. There’s a tremble in his wrist that Richie can see. “My mom’s not dead, I flew to Derry to set up a fake funeral just to fuck with you specifically. To make you feel like a dick -- which you still are, obviously.”

Obviously. Richie’s face softens, guilt crawling up his throat and threatening to choke him. He reaches out again, his hand finding the side of Eddie’s tense jaw this time instead. It feels like he’s been doing it forever, even if yesterday he’d forgotten Eddie existed. He pushes the thought away.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Hey, I’m sorry -- I was just giving you shit. I didn’t know. Is that -- that’s why you’re here?”

“Of course that’s why I’m here,” he states coldly, shuffling in his seat, he retrieves his wallet from his pants pocket. “Why else would anyone come back to this shithole town, right?” Shrugging, he slaps money on the table and moves to stand. “Unless they’re like you, and everything’s just a big joke anyway, then I guess it’s the same everywhere.” 

The bell on the door jingles as Richie is rushing out of his own seat, scrambling to catch up where Eddie is halfway down the sidewalk. It’s unclear what his plan is, since technically Richie still has him trapped in with his car down the street, but Richie doesn’t intend to let him get that far anyways.

“Eds!” he shouts as he hurries after him. “Eddie! Wait!” 

“Fuck you,” Eddie calls over his shoulder, but Richie is gaining on him fast. 

“C’mon, what are you gonna do? Outrun me?” he asks, unable to help himself from grinning faintly. “We both know that’s not gonna happen.”

Sure enough, he’s caught up with him easily, and even with Eddie power-walking as angrily as he can manage, he’s not gaining any ground. Gradually, he gives it up, and they slow to a meander as Eddie’s temper edges off. 

“I’m sorry,” Richie says again, leaning over to bump their shoulders together as they walk, not missing the way Eddie scowls at the contact. That’s a good sign, and he does it again more insistently. “About your mom, man. I didn’t know.”

“That’s the problem with running your mouth so much, asshole” Eddie replies, but there’s no bite in the words. With his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, he doesn’t step further away. Their shoulders keep brushing, occasionally, now that Richie’s initiated the proximity. “You never fucking know. You still haven’t figured that out?”

“Sure,” he answers. “Just never seems to outweigh the other stuff. Did you see my car? I’m touring worldwide next year. I’ve got a fucking summer house.”

For a second, the grief that’s been weighing down the corner of Eddie’s mouth lifts into disbelief, distracted by the nerve, and Richie can’t help but grin, that old familiar victory lighting him up the way it always does when he manages to get under Eddie’s skin.

For the first time since he pulled in past that _Welcome to Derry _sign, Richie starts to feel like himself. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie is gangly and beautiful. He wears stupid polo shirts and ugly windbreakers in colors that Richie could never dream of wearing, and years of being the underdog has made him quick and sharp with his comebacks. He still brushes his hair into the same shape his mom did when they were kids, and he hates the horror movies Richie bullies him into watching. He’s the definition of a loser, and utterly unapologetic for it.
> 
> Sometimes, Richie looks at him and he thinks Eddie is the bravest person he’s ever met.

They meet up again a few days later, and he drags Eddie along to scout out a couple new locations to shoot. It seemed like the most neutral way to hang out, and it means that Richie can pretend that he’s working without actually doing much of anything at all. He’s got a list of potential sites that they’re slowly working through: the school (already done), the Aladdin (shut down), the park... half remembered places that can be cobbled together in a video montage. 

Today they’re wandering through what might be the most pathetic shopping mall Richie’s ever been in in his life; with more than half its storefronts shuttered, it’s even been abandoned by the usually foolproof demographic of bored teenagers looking to start shit. It’s kind of funny, actually -- aside from the two of them, the place is mostly populated by pairs of geratric ladies, power walking their circuit.

Eddie doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, in his stupid orthopedic shoes, he fits right in with the crowd. With the backdrop of the outdated mall, and the eerie elevator music, Richie can almost picture him twenty years ago -- fanny pack and walkman strapped to his belt, slurping on something from the food court.

The image stirs something familiar and achingly fond in his chest.

“Take a picture, dickwad, it’ll last longer.”

Eddie says it like they’ve been at this forever -- like the gap that Richie only just became aware of never existed. With his hands crossed against his chest, and the familiar way his brow furrows just slightly, Richie could almost believe that. That it’s been a lifetime of staring at him, watching his jaw get stronger and his legs get longer and the shrill, indignant sound of his voice turn into something deeper.

He could almost believe it, except for how Eddie’s absence -- an absence he never even felt, all these years -- rattles around in his chest now. Except for how he’d be used to the sight of him if that were true, and the past week has only proved that wrong. He should have expected Eddie to notice: Richie’s been looking at him every chance he gets, making up for lost time. 

He wants to ask about that; wants to ask if it feels that way for Eddie, too, just an empty spot in his brain. A wound he can’t quite find. He wants to ask if it feels just as fucking terrifying, for reasons he can explain and reasons that he can’t.

He doesn’t. Instead he looks at the ceiling instead of at Eddie’s dark, dark eyes. 

“Fuck off, man,” he laughs, like Eddie’s the ridiculous one. Like his hands aren’t shaking at being called out, like his fingers don’t ache to find Eddie’s hair anyways. He examines the crack in the ceiling above his head, pretends to be engrossed in the way it spiders out from the light fixture. “Jesus.”

“How long are you here?” Eddie asks instead of pursuing, and Richie can still feel his eyes on him. It’s a loaded question, but he can’t quite figure out how. Or maybe Richie is just getting cagey. He should be done in Derry by mid next week at the very latest, but there’s the pressing, embarrassing realization that if Eddie asked him to stay longer, he would. Hell, if Eddie asked him to come back to New York with him, he would probably consider that too.

“Until we’re done, I guess,” he hedges. “Why, you’re sick of me already? Gonna tell me to hit the road?”

“Getting around to it,” Eddie affirms. “It’s weird being back, right? It feels...” he trails off, like he’s not sure of the word for it, or like he’s too nervous to say the one that comes to mind.

“Fucking haunted,” Richie finishes instinctively. “Makes you remember why you left.”

He regrets the words once they’re out of his mouth. He skipped town first, after all, leaving Eddie behind without so much as an explanation, and then... what? Forgot about him completely? Blocked him out as some kind of fucked up coping mechanism? They haven’t talked about that part, and he almost expects Eddie to call him out for it. It hangs in the silence between them.

Richie remembers the stories: boys run out of town, boys disappeared, boys tied to fence posts and dumped in rivers and left for dead in ditches.

Boys like him, who looked for too long and then didn’t make it out of Derry to talk about it. 

“Maybe you can come visit me in LA sometime,” Richie says, as if to make up for the abandonment. An apology, a dozen years too late, and still just a half measure of what he actually means. “We’ll get you the fuck away from the East Coast for a little bit. The dry heat would be good for you -- like all these seniors, flying south for the winter to help their joints and their lungs. You’re pushing eighty now, right?”

  
He doesn’t dare glance at Eddie for a reaction, and the words feel like they burn his throat. 

“If you ever get through sorting that fucking house out,” he adds quickly. It feels like Eddie’s eyes are on him, now, but maybe he’s just imagining it. “Speaking of haunted. That place must be a fucking nightmare.”

“Not more of a nightmare than hanging out with you right now,” Eddie answers mildly. “You think they’d let you away from your obviously very busy schedule to help me clean it out?”

Shrugging, Richie checks his watch. “Probably,” he replies. “I pretty much do whatever I want. I’m a big star now, Eds. Hey. You ever watch my stuff?”

“I would literally rather walk on hot coals than watch your comedy routine,” Eddie tells him flatly. “I really would.”

“Well we’re going to your mom’s house,” Richie reasons. “Which is Hell on Earth. So. Pretty similar, right? You cross the threshold and start sizzling?” 

Staring at him in disbelief, Eddie scoffs. “You  _ are _ an asshole.”

“You love it,” Richie counters slyly, and Eddie rolls his eyes. 

\--

Richie is seventeen years old, and he can count on one hand the number of times he’s come dangerously close to kissing his best friend. He’s thought about it a million times -- wanted to wordlessly more than that. Their circle has been shrinking over the years; Bill moved away after Bowers’ trial, then Ben after that. Mike barely leaves the farm anymore. For a few years, Richie has had Stan as a buffer, at least, Stan the lifesaver, but now Stan is with his cousins upstate for the semester, and that just leaves the two of them.

It’s both the best and the worst thing to have ever happened to Richie. 

Eddie is gangly and beautiful. He wears stupid polo shirts and ugly windbreakers in colors that Richie could never dream of wearing, and years of being the underdog has made him quick and sharp with his comebacks. He still brushes his hair into the same shape his mom did when they were kids, and he hates the horror movies Richie bullies him into watching. He’s the definition of a loser, and utterly unapologetic for it.

Sometimes, Richie looks at him and he thinks Eddie is the bravest person he’s ever met. 

“You ever wonder if anyone scratched your name in here?” Eddie asks, rapping his knuckles against the bridge as they meander across it. Above them, the sky stretches wide and dark and endless. Eddie only slurs his words the barest amount; he never drinks as much as Richie, as if he’s worried his mom will sense it from across town and show up on someone’s doorstep. 

“Like, if you’re here without even knowing it?”

Richie doesn’t have to wonder, so he doesn’t answer. He tugs his leather jacket closer around his shoulders and squeezes his eyes shut to try and balance himself. He’s in love, but he’s also drunk, and alone with Eddie in the middle of the night with no one around. That’s a bad combination. 

“Hey, you’re awfully quiet trashmouth.”

Eddie’s slender hands on his shoulders, keeping him steady. Eddie smells like the river underneath them, like the beer they were drinking, like that perfumey detergent his mom uses and the faint, sharp scent of soap. Richie’s pulled into him like a magnet, his forehead slumping against Eddie’s shoulder, his arms wrapping sloppily around Eddie’s waist.

“Why’d you say that?” Richie asks, paranoia and hope twisting miserably together in his chest. It’s a familiar feeling:  _ Does Eddie know? Could he? _

“What?”

“The bridge. ‘Bout the bridge.”

He raises his head, and Eddie’s face is right there, smiling but confused. Richie could kiss him. It wouldn’t take much. He could lean up and press their mouths together, end the misery that’s been rattling around in his bones since before he knew the name for it. He could push Eddie against the wooden railing and change all of this for one sweet second of relief.

He could, he could, he could...

“Come on, Rich,” Eddie says gently, hitching Richie’s arm up over his shoulder despite the height difference. “Almost home.”

He doesn’t. They fall asleep in Richie’s parents’ basement -- Eddie on the couch, Richie beneath him on the floor like bunkbeds, since they were too scared of making a racket getting upstairs to the bedroom. They spend Sunday playing Nintendo and eating garbage, and Richie tells himself that it’s just the hangover making him feel like shit. 

On Monday morning, someone hurls a slur at Eddie in the hallway, and it feels like Richie’s fault, hanging sickly and shameful over him for the rest of the day even as it rolls off of Eddie’s back the way it usually does. Richie isn’t sure what that means, and he’s never been brave enough to ask: how Eddie can live with those words staining his skin, how he never seems to take them heart anymore.

Richie’s not a fighter but he bloodies his knuckles on the guy’s teeth after class as a reward for the remark. It feels good for about five seconds, before the shame and panic rush over him again, and he’s puking his guts out behind a dumpster.

Richie doesn’t talk to Eddie for a week after that, convincing himself that he's doing him a favour.

\--

  
  


“I feel like I just stepped out of a fucking time machine.”

The Kaspbrak house looks eerily familiar. A sad looking quilt and a few pillows betray Eddie’s adult presence, no less than three suitcases of varying sizes tucked against the cushions. Other than that, Richie feels like he could look out the window and see a pack of kid-sized bikes sprawled across the front lawn. He almost expects to hear Mrs. Kaspbrak’s voice calling over Wheel of Fortune, that sickly sweet whine for Eddie’s attention.

“Yeah, she didn’t change much,” Eddie answers, grimacing a little bit. “There’s guys coming to, uh, pack everything up in a couple days. I just want to go through and see if there’s anything I need to keep.”

It’s a feat that’s easier said than done, if the look of the place is any indication. Every surface of the place seems to be covered in clutter -- picture frames, newspapers, knick knacks and pill bottles. Eddie moves around it like he’s afraid to touch anything but Richie has no such problem, picking up shit at random and setting it back down. It feels good, in a bizarre kind of way. He’s spent so long locking Derry up behind him that Eddie’s old house feels like a good place to land. A touchstone that he doesn’t have to claim as his own. 

“I’m gonna go see if your ma put a treadmill in your old room,” he calls out obnoxiously, then thinking better of the joke, adds: “That’s what my parents did.”

There’s a radio on the shelf at the bottom of the stairs, and Richie flips it on, fiddling with the dial to get it off of the oldies station it had been set to. The pop music he eventually lands on does help to make the place feel less haunted, and after a few minutes he thinks he can hear Eddie humming along from where he muddles through the kitchen. Smiling to himself, Richie moves upstairs.

It’s a lot of the same, really. The main difference is that the upstairs is hides everything that Richie finds familiar. Going into Eddie’s room is probably a step too far, and Richie almost reconsiders it, but he changes his mind and takes the dare.

“Oh, Jesus,” Richie mutters. He does remember this. What he doesn’t remember is the stuffed animal menagerie laid out on Eddie’s bed -- that’s his mother’s work, leaving all of Eddie’s friends waiting for him. 

Opening the closet sends an avalanche of things crashing to the floor, and Richie jumps back instinctively before he begins piecing it apart. Really, he can’t help himself.

“Hey Eds!” he calls out a few minutes later. “Eddie! I found some shit you gotta keep!”

Every thump of Eddie’s feet up the stairs fills Richie with eager anticipation. Hidden from view, Richie waits, and the second Eddie crosses the threshold into the room, Richie slams the foam bat right into his face. 

“Fuck!” Eddie utters, startled more than hurt -- that was the whole idea. For a few summers, they were big on baseball, but Eddie’s mom was afraid of broken teeth and skinned knees and so the sacrifice meant foam bats and softballs. 

“It’s a surprise party!” Richie says gleefully, gesturing with the bat towards a dozen pairs of plastic eyes. Another whap of the bat over Eddie’s head as Richie laughs, putting on a voice for full plush effect: “We missed you Eddie-Bear!”

“Would you cut that out?!” Eddie makes a swing for the bat and misses, lunging forward instead. That’s nothing but encouragement, and Richie smacks him again, grinning with satisfaction at the noise it makes against the back of his head.  _ Whack --  _ another hit, and Richie dodges grabbing hands --  _ whack, whack. _

“Richie! I mean it!”

At some point, Richie’s backed himself into a corner here. His shoulder bumps a framed participation ribbon -- debate, not sports -- as Eddie closes in on him, hands outstretched like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. It might not be a bad analogy, for how ridiculously committed Richie’s become to the game, barely stifling laughter as he swings in a wild arc in front of him.

“Is that a threat?” he asks, jabbing forward. Eddie swerves out of the way this time. “You’re like half my size, Kaspbrak. It’s like I’m fending off a chihuahua--  _ yo quiero Taco Bell!  _ it’s pretty cute, actually.”

The shit talking’s too much of a distraction and finally, Eddie manages to get a hold of the bat on the next swing. He pulls and Richie pulls back insistently, unwilling to give up the gag just yet, more breathless from the exertion than he realized until Eddie is right up in his space.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” Eddie accuses, but he’s close enough that Richie can see the smile in the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes shine and his cheeks are flushed. “You’re gonna give me a fucking asthma attack, shithead. Give me the bat.”

There’s a mistake waiting to happen here; Richie can feel it in the pit of his stomach, but some masochistic part of him refuses to disengage. He’s older now anyways, and his willpower is better than it was. The adrenaline is still enough to drown out any panic that might be itching to set in. He sinks his fingers tighter into the foam.

“You’re an idiot,” Eddie sighs, laughter touching his voice. It’s just a shake in his chest at first, then it seems to spread through him like cracks in ice, shaking his shoulders and pulling at his mouth. For a second, Richie really does think he’s gonna need to find his inhaler, and then he sees the grin. Then Eddie is laughing outright, the first time Richie’s heard it since their reunion, his hand dropping the bat to steady himself against Richie’s shoulder. 

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Eddie says again, quiet and breathless, and when Richie opens his mouth to argue, Eddie suddenly leans in to silence him. 

For all the times Richie pictured this, secret and shameful and treasured, it was always him that kissed Eddie first. Somehow he never expected the warmth of Eddie’s mouth pressed against his like a question, never considered the way Eddie’s fingers could curl against his chest before his brain has even caught up enough to move. Eddie kisses him and it’s like Richie can suddenly remember every time he’s ever wanted to, every glance snuck at him under soft summer sunlight, every brush of his hand against Eddie’s since they were nine years old. 

“Shit,” Richie breathes, stupid as ever, reaching forward to put his hands to the side of Eddie’s face before he can pull away. 

Richie is thirty years old, and he has kissed both men and women before. There’s always a sense of impending doom to it regardless; the knowledge that the whole thing is fucked from the start. No matter how much he might like the guy, one of them will still be cabbing home in the quiet hours of the night, never to be spoken of again.

Kissing Eddie feels like having his ribs cracked right down the center. It feels like half a lifetime of searching for something he couldn’t name has suddenly hit him like a pile of bricks. His glasses are frustratingly obtrusive, keeping him from pulling Eddie any closer and opening him up with his mouth the way he wants to, and there’s a shelf digging into his shoulder from where Eddie has him backed into the wall. None of it matters. 

At least, it wouldn’t matter. Richie doesn’t think he’d move from this spot even to breathe if Eddie didn’t lead him, but Eddie does, pulling away and reaching hands up to pull the glasses off his face. The minute seems to drag on as Eddie gives the barest of smiles, folds Richie’s glasses up with a stupid amount of attentiveness and sets them aside on the bedside table. Richie can barely see him, but he can feel his body there, can hear his own heart hammering in his ears. He must look like a dishevelled mess, completely undone and debauched from what’s realistically a very chaste encounter.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks; Richie can hear the furrow in his brow even if he can’t see it all that clearly. Honestly, he’s not sure of the answer. He could very well be on his way to a fucking panic attack, except that would probably freak Eddie out too much to kiss him again. He's dizzy. Eddie, his Eddie, close enough to taste. Eddie, interested enough to have leaned in first (when the fuck did that happen? How long?), enthusiastic enough to be lingering, crowding their bodies together. Richie is either very, very okay or not okay at all, but talking about it threatens to break the spell entirely.

“Yeah, I’m fine, man I just --” he sighs instead, shaking his head just a little, letting his lips turn down at the corners for good measure. “...I was just thinking that it’s weird that I’ve made out with two generations of Kaspbrak.”

“Don’t,” Eddie warns. “Do not.”

“You,” Richie continues, mournful like he hadn’t heard him. 

“I swear to fucking god.”

“...And your mom.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Eddie groans. “I’m literally going to kill you, and then I’m going to be stuck planning two shitty funerals in one week because I’m the only person stupid enough in this world to put up with you.”

Humming, Richie reaches blindly forward until his fingers can sink into the material of Eddie’s shirt. _Put up with me forever_, he thinks. _You're the only one in the world I want to._

“Will you write me a nice eulogy?” is what he asks, mumbling against Eddie’s frowning lips, pulling him closer and noting with satisfaction the lack of resistance. “Tell them I was funny and handsome. Tell them I had a big dick.”

“Absolutely not,” Eddie says, huffing, but Richie can taste a smile on his lips when he kisses him again.  
  


\--

  
  


He’s half asleep when Eddie edges closer, worming his sleeping bag over until their bodies are pressed together. Without his glasses, Eddie is just a blur of warmth -- pale skin, dark hair, swishy purple fabric up to his chest. Richie’s fingers itch to pull them off the bedside table so he can look at him clearly, count the freckles that he knows dot the bridge of Eddie’s nose in the dim light of the basement. 

He doesn’t. Instead he shifts his arm out his own sleeping back to wrap around Eddie’s shoulders, swallowing past the guilty, aching feeling that swells up in his chest when Eddie tucks his head down against his chest.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of the dark, Eds,” he goads, reaching fingers up to tug sharply at a strand of dark hair. “You’re getting a little old for this shit, don’t ya think? Someone’s gonna see us like this and get the wrong idea.”

There’s the sharp jab of Eddie’s knee in his hip, and Richie yelps.

“There’s no one here but us, fuckface,” Eddie says, his eyes closed, reaching up to bat where Richie’s still pulling at his hair. “Who’s gonna get the wrong idea, huh?”

_ Me, _ is what comes without permission, ringing out clear and sharp and awful at the front of Richie’s mind.  _ Just me. _

“I’m just saying!” he presses on, pushing the way he always does to drown it out. “We’re gonna be sophomores in two weeks. We’ve got an example to set and shit. The Bert n' Ernie routine's gonna get old at some point, ya know." He snorts at his own comparison. "Hey, who's who? I think you're probably Bert; you know, cause of the eyebrows? Plus I'm a shit ton more likeable than you are, and Bert's kind of a bitch." 

Groaning, Eddie turns himself over. Richie can feel the puff of his breath on his shoulder through the material of his t-shirt. 

“Beep beep Richie,” he grumbles, those magic words he uses so sparingly to end an argument he’s obviously too exhausted for. It works the way it always does, and Richie sighs, swallowing his tongue and going still underneath him. He stays like that for a long time -- silent and careful and completely awake.

Later, when Eddie’s breathing is steady and slow, Richie tucks his nose down into his hair. Eddie is a heavy sleeper, he always has been, so despite the usual pang of guilt, Richie doesn’t worry too much about brushing his fingers softly, covetously, through the hair at the back of his neck. The ever-present worry in Eddie’s expression melts away when he sleeps.

Eventually, tangled up with him, Richie sleeps too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come babble about reddie with me:  
@richtoziers on tumblr  
@unfinishedduet on twitter


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh hey,” Richie says, pausing with his fingers over a picture. It’s not all that different than the rest of them; Eddie is sitting on the front step of his house again, the way he is in most of the photos that his mom obviously forced him into posing for. In this one he isn’t smiling, though, not even a little, and his left arm is rested uselessly on his lap. “I forgot you broke your arm.”
> 
> \--
> 
> Some memories, a funeral, a talk no one wants to have.

It’s a pretty reasonably sized box that Eddie takes from the house, considering the amount of shit there was to go through. Richie offers to keep it in the inn for a few days while the rest of the place gets cleared, just to avoid it getting lost in the confusion. He extends the same offer to Eddie, at least throughout the day, to spare him the trauma of watching strangers pack up everything that’s left of his mother’s life.

It’s nice to have the company, anyways. He gets in from work around three and Eddie is in the lounge, a drink and a laptop on the table in front of him. The box is on the floor next to him untouched. He doesn’t look drunk -- glancing up when Richie walks through the door and giving a wave of his fingers.

“There really isn’t anyone working here?” he asks, as Richie leans across the bar and helps himself to a bottle and a glass. “I’ve been here since, like, noon and it’s been a ghost town. I just walked in.”

“There was someone here when I checked in,” Richie shrugs, pouring himself a drink and sliding into the chair next to him. Grabbing the box, he tips it a little to peer inside. “But I haven’t seen him again all week. There’s a number to call when want the room cleaned, but I guess if they aren’t expecting check ins they just fuck off.”

There’s a couple of photo albums poking out of the side of the box, accordion spines yellowing from years of being buried under garbage. Richie grabs one up before Eddie can realize what he’s doing and snatch it away from him, although he seems to realize what’s going on as soon as Richie sets the book down on the table.

“Oh god,” Eddie groans. “You just got here. You’re going to be insufferable already? Really?”

“Dude, I’ve waited all day!” Richie argues. “My talents are wasted on the dumb shit they’re making me do. I just had to fuckin’... walk around town and make shit up about landmarks.”

He flips open the book, skimming past a couple pages of Kapbrak relatives until he gets to the good shit. He knows there’s bound to be a goldmine of embarrassing baby pictures in here: cutesy little outfits from when Eddie was too young to protest, bonnets and baptisms, crying with the Easter Bunny... he’s sure Eddie has done it all. What he finds is better than he can imagine: one where he and his mother are wearing matching outfits, right down to the same set of shoes... and Richie covers his mouth to hide the smirk on his face. Tempting as it is, it may be too grim to mock the late Mother Kaspbrak, if the scene from the other day is any indication.

Really, he’s the perfect image of restraint.

“Oh hey,” Richie says, pausing with his fingers over a picture. It’s not all that different than the rest of them; Eddie is sitting on the front step of his house again, the way he is in most of the photos that his mom obviously forced him into posing for. In this one he isn’t smiling, though, not even a little, and his left arm is rested uselessly on his lap. “I forgot you broke your arm.”

“Huh? Let me see.”

Sliding the album closer, Eddie peers at the photo over his shoulder. Confusion passes over his face, the corner of his mouth flicking downwards, his brow furrowing. There’s something eerie about the picture, like one of those trick photos where if you look long enough, you notice something hidden in the background. No matter how hard Richie looks, though, nothing reveals itself -- just Eddie, alone on the step, cradling a broken arm. 

“I forgot too,” Eddie says after a second, obviously troubled by the admission. “I can’t, uh -- how’d I do that?”

“Shut up, man,” Richie laughs,. “You forgot how you broke your own arm? Fuck you. Don’t be weird.”

“No, really,” Eddie insists, flipping back and forth between a couple of pages as if it’ll reveal some kind of clue. “Do you remember? My mom would have freaked the fuck out, I should remember how it happened. Do you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Richie scoffs. He remembers Eddie with the cast now that he’s seen it; the scrawl of black sharpie and the bright, defiant V that reclaimed it. He can remember signing his name underneath the label, and teasing Eddie about how sloppy the weight of it had made his bike steering. “You broke it, uh--”

He doesn’t know. 

Frowning, Richie tries to gather his thoughts. It’s stupid, Eddie is right -- a broken bone would have been armageddon in the Kaspbrak household, and they’d been together every summer until Richie had left town. He can remember everything that came after clear as day -- how it had felt scratchy against his own arm lying in the grass together, close enough to touch. No matter how hard he thinks, though, no solid origin presents itself. It’s like there’s a hole where the rest of the memory should be, and suddenly Richie feels a little sick. 

“I can remember you screaming your head off,” he says, wetting his lips. “Uh -- shit. I can remember I snapped it back. Remember? Where the fuck were we.”

He’s on the cusp of something ugly, and he can almost make it out if he closes his eyes... His hands shaking as he held Eddie’s pale face, the sick noise it made when he pushed the bone back together. The screaming -- not just Eddie, but all of them, faces he can almost make out...

“I remember being scared,” Eddie says, nearly a whisper. When he meets Richie’s eyes they’re wide and full of fear now, too. When they were kids, Richie had always thought those eyes looked sombre beyond their years: serious and desperate to be taken seriously, which is why Richie made such a point of giving him shit. Right now, they just look hunted. “Richie.”

Eddie’s hands are shaking when he pats himself down, finding his inhaler in the same stupid spot that it always is. He shakes it, the familiar noise of it clanking around doing absolutely nothing to help the anxiety pulsing between Richie’s ears. He’s still staring at the picture even as he inhales, and Richie reaches over and slams the book closed.

“This is stupid,” Richie decides, pushing the album aside definitively. “That’s enough.”

He can feel it too, icy fear in the pit of his stomach, like he’s just looked at something he wasn’t meant to see. 

“Okay,” Eddie agrees quickly, wincing and squeezing his eyes closed -- as if he needs to shut the world out for a minute. “Okay, okay. Forget it. It’ll come back to me.” He wets his lips, taking a deep breath to set himself straight. “I’m sure I’m just -- overwhelmed. There’s a lot of shit going on, I’ve got the funeral, the house, I still have to keep in touch with work, there’s _ you _...”

“Me?” Richie parrots, pulling his attention back to the present. “What about me?”

“You know what,” Eddie counters. He’s still got his inhaler clutched between his fingers, but he’s holding his arm to his chest now too, as if he can feel the ghost of the break. “You’re not...”

“What?” Richie frowns, defensiveness and misdirected anxiety hackling at the back of his neck. “Not what? Not who you were hoping to run into? Not what you had in mind?”

“W_hat _ ?” Eddie repeats sharply, scoffing. “No, you fucking dumbass, unfortunately you’re every bit as obnoxious as you’ve always been, so you’re exactly what I had in mind. Who else would I be hoping to run into in _ Derry _ of all places?” he gives Richie a look that may as well be a smack over the head. 

“You’re not _ out. _ I’m not stupid,” he says, then, as if the words are being dragged out of him: “And I’ve... seen some of your stuff. The whole _ I’m an asshole, my girlfriend sucks _shit. So either you’re an actual scumbag for making out with me the other day, or, you know, the other option, which is the one that I’ve been going with.”

Oh. Richie’s skin feels hot, his eyes widening as his mouth fails him. That old guilt twists at his gut again, a bitter taste rising to the back of his throat. 

“It’s whatever,” Eddie must see the expression on his face, because he quickly continues. “I’m not like -- it’s _ fine _ Rich _ , _I’m just saying it’s another thing that I’m navigating, here, so forgive me if some of this shit is throwing me through a fucking loop, okay?”

“Wait, are you?” Richie asks, his brain suddenly kicked into overdrive. The thought aches a little bit; affection and jealousy and pride all tangled up and ugly somewhere inside him. The photo album lies forgotten on the table, but he reaches for his drink, tossing it back as he stares at Eddie. 

The question seems to shut him up for a minute, although he purses his lips.

“I’ve never really gotten around to dating enough for it to be relevant,” Eddie admits begrudgingly. “Pretty sure my mom was still hoping I was a thirty year old virgin, so --”

Richie snorts. 

“Aren’t you?”

“Hey, fuck you,” Eddie bites back. “We weren’t talking about me anyways. So what’s the deal? Is it work?”

“No,” Richie answers immediately, then: “Yeah. Maybe. Kind of. It’s... complicated. It’s everything.”

He hesitates for a second, tilting his head up towards the ceiling as he tries to sort out the tug of war that happens in his head. He _ hates _thinking about this shit, and if he had the balls to talk about it with anyone, he’d probably hate that too. Eddie’s not one to let him get away with anything, though, and honestly the words are there at the tip of his tongue, like they’ve been there his whole life just waiting for the right person to spring on.

Like he’s been waiting for Eddie to ask, really. Go figure.

“I thought it’d be easier after I left Derry?” he admits at length, trying to ignore the way his stomach turns. He’s not gonna puke right now, but he can feel himself sweating, and the glance he spares Eddie is fleeting at best. “I used to think about it. Like, I’d be like -- once I get the fuck out of here, I’ll do something about it. I’m gonna get out of this shitty town and I’m not gonna be afraid anymore, you know, but --”

But, but, but. 

“But that’s not how it works,” Eddie finishes for him quietly, after the silence has gone on for too long. His thumb taps idly against the plastic of his inhaler. “You’re just afraid somewhere else.”

“Right,” Richie says, exhaling shakily. “And I just kept waiting for there to be like, a good time to figure it out, and it never came. And then my shit started taking off, right, and it’s not like anyone asks so then you’re just lying by omission anyways -- which is fine. It’s fine.”

Shaking his head, Richie huffs out a sharp breath through his nose.

“You’ve got enough shit going on, man,” he says, laughing in a way he doesn’t feel. “You don’t gotta go all... Dr. K on me. It’s not like it’s a big fucking deal. It’s not keeping me up at night.”

“Alright,” Eddie relents, raising his hands in surrender. “Whatever you say, Trashmouth.”

He drops the subject, but there’s the unspoken question that lingers: what does that mean for you and me? For us? _ Us _ being a concept that burns in the back of Richie’s throat: a terrible combination of helpless affection and miserable, haunting dread. 

\--

He’s been waiting on the curb outside of Eddie’s house for about an hour. With his feet planted on the side of the road, Richie lies back in the grass, rewinding and replaying the mix tape in his walkman to try and drown out the anxiety that thrums around in his chest. Which is stupid -- he’s as bad as Eddie’s ma at this point, all worked up over nothing.

The crunch of tires on gravel has him shoot up, scrambling to stand before the car’s even all the way pulled in. Honestly, he’s still a little pissed off that Mrs. K wouldn’t let him just come along to the hospital -- between the two of them, Richie figures it must have been a scene when they sawed off the cast. He could have added some much needed levity to the whole situation.

“Hey,” he calls, pulling on the passenger door handle once the car stops, despite the disapproving face that frowns at him from the driver’s side. The door flies open, and Richie’s arms fly up as he exclaims: “You’re alive, Eds!”

“I hope you haven’t been lying in the grass there all morning, Richard,” Mrs. Kasbrak chides, heaving herself up out of the car and heading towards the front door. “You’ll be covered in ants and pollen and god knows what -- you’re not coming into our house filthy like that.”

“No, Mrs. K,” he lies, although he doesn’t let himself touch Eddie quite yet. “Just got here, honestly. Can Eddie walk to the general store with me? I have to pick up some stuff for my dad -- we could get Eddie’s ‘scripts at the same time.”

“I need a new inhaler, mommy,” Eddie pipes up, catching on. “And I could ask Mr. Keene for your vitamins, too.”

“I can carry everything back,” Richie adds helpfully. “So that Eddie doesn’t strain his arm and you don’t gotta make another trip. I don’t mind!”

She glances between them, Richie bouncing anxiously on his toes and Eddie still hanging back near the car, and relents. 

“Alright,” she sighs. “But Eddie-Bear, I don’t want you hauling those bags back here. And no running all over town! You go right to the store and then come home to rest, you’ve had a big day.”

“Yes, mommy,” Eddie says, right at the same time as Richie grins: “Thanks, Mrs. K!”

They’re around the corner before Richie grabs him up. Looping one skinny arm around Eddie’s neck, Richie pulls his head into his chest and laughs as Eddie squirms.

“Get off me, fucker!”

“I can’t believe I didn’t get to see them saw that thing off your arm,” he complains, releasing Eddie’s head and making a grab for his wrist instead. “Did you freak the fuck out? Did you think they were gonna take the whole arm?”

“Ow!” Eddie exclaims. “Lay off! It still hurts, asshole, the skin hasn’t gotten any air in like, an entire year, I’m still not convinced that I don’t have gout.”

Richie rolls his eyes, but he gives up his grip on Eddie’s arm nonetheless. The skin does look a little weird, and for once Eddie might not be completely exaggerating that it’s sore. 

“It hasn’t been a year, ya fuckin’ drama queen,” Richie snorts. “Did they let you keep the cast? Was it slimey inside? That thing’s gonna be worth money one day, Eds, it’s got my autograph on it. When I make it big in Hollywood land you’re gonna be able to auction that shit off for like a thousand bucks, skin cells and all.”

Holding his arm to his chest, Eddie makes a face.

“It wasn’t slimey,” he says. “And no I didn’t keep it, that’s disgusting. Do you know how many germs were probably on that thing? Plaster is porous as fuck, it’s absorbed every nasty fucking thing I’ve touched this summer -- I hope they burned it.”

Richie has to admit he’s a little bit disappointed. It’s almost weird to see Eddie without it now -- somehow he looks more vulnerable, as if the cast had been a badge of honour, signed and certified by all of them. It’s jarring to think of it in a trashbin somewhere.

“I guess you didn’t need to keep it,” he muses, hooking an arm around Eddie’s neck again, but more gently this time. Eddie doesn’t resist. “Since when I get the fuck outta here, I’ll just bring you with me.”

“If you get famous, I’ll eat my fucking foot,” Eddie mutters, but he doesn’t argue the point. “Besides, you’ve taken up a whole page in every yearbook I’ve ever had, I think I’ve got all the Trashmouth memorabilia I need.” 

Grinning, Richie jostles him. “Maybe _ that’s _ why I’ll keep you around when we go,” Richie goads. “You can run my advertising, design all the merchandise... stick my handsome face on everything: t-shirts, stickers...”

“Punching bags?” Eddie offers dully. 

“Mh, bad idea,” Richie offers gravely. “You’re very delicate, Eddie-bear. Don’t want you to break your arm again.” 

Eddie fakes a swing at the very real face right in front of him, failing miserably, and Richie laughs as they stumble down the pavement. Soon enough Eddie is laughing too, the sound bubbling past his lips like he just can’t help it, and Richie just grabs him tighter. They really could do this forever, he thinks, fame or not. Just the two of them against the world.

He carries Eddie’s pharmacy bag all the way home, even though he knows he doesn’t have to.

\--

The funeral’s on Friday, and Richie skips out on filming for the day. He gets some shit for it, but not enough that he’s worried they’ll scrap the project. Besides, it doesn’t seem like Eddie has much of anyone here left to lean on, and Richie isn’t entirely sure that his decision would be any different even if some suit did get pissy and decide to cancel him.

“I don’t have to come in,” he says, for the fourth time as Eddie fusses with his tie in the passenger seat. “I can just wait in the car if you want.”

It’s cowardice but it’s also care; he’s not sure how welcome he is in Eddie’s new world yet. The fear of overstepping, of doing too much, sits on the back of his neck like a constant companion. He could ruin this for Eddie with one wrong move, say the wrong thing or linger too long and poison something that should be sacred and private.

“You should come,” Eddie says, shaking his head. He doesn’t look like he slept the night before, like he might shake apart while Richie watches. His suit is just slightly too big for him, and there’s a wrinkle in the lapel that Richie’s fingers itch to smooth out. “She’d, uh -- want you there I think.”

Richie very much doubts that, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods solemnly.

“I was the love of her life,” he agrees seriously, innocently meeting the dead eyed stare of disbelief he gets in return. “I prepared, uh, a speech, actually, talking about our long and happy union, I think she really would have wanted me to stand up and --”

“Come on, dickhead.” Eddie interrupts, heaving a long suffering sigh as he steps out of the car. “Let’s go.” 

It’s a short service, and the crowd is small and mostly present out of obligation. His history with Eddie is still coming back in pieces, but from what he can remember of her, Sonia Kaspbrak wasn’t exactly the most pleasant person in life. That seems to be reflected in the attendance. Richie recognizes a few faces -- parents of kids he knew, mostly, a couple of people who could have been teachers. He spends most of the afternoon with his hands tucked in front of him, trying to stave off the anxiety he gets any time someone looks at him too long.

What does he look like to these people? Has Eddie kept in touch with any of them? It doesn’t seem like it, from the awkward way he shakes hands without making much conversation, the uncomfortable way he holds himself. Then again, Richie hasn’t been to many funerals lately. Maybe that’s just the vibe.

Part of him itches to explain himself to anyone who’ll listen; that him being here is a coincidence, nothing more. Derry’s the wrong place for anyone to get the wrong idea, and they showed up together in the same car. He hates that it even bothers him, hates the way that it’s fear that turns his stomach instead of grief for what Eddie is dealing with. To try and distract himself, he starts keeping count of every time Eddie reaches inside his jacket for the tiny bottle of hand sanitizer he’s expectedly stashed there.

Eddie turns to meet his eyes across the room just a couple of times. Each time, Richie offers a smile despite himself, in lieu of a steadying hand at the small of his back. It must work, at least a little: Eddie doesn’t cry until the service is over and everyone has gone. Richie barely sees the glint of tears that slip down his cheek, hidden in the shadows cast by the streetlight in the empty parking lot.

“Hey buddy,” he starts, wrapping his hand around Eddie’s elbow. “Hey, hey.”

Eddie crumples under the touch, like it’s all the permission he needs to let the day finally take its toll on him. Richie draws him in quickly, wraps arms around him, taken offguard by how easily Eddie presses his wet face into the crook of his neck and lets himself go, his shoulders shaking under Richie's palms. 

“I’m sorry,” Richie says, stroking Eddie’s hair while he cries, his nose buried against the crown of Eddie’s head. It’s like a mantra; an apology for the weight Eddie carried today, but for a hundred other things too. For the grief of not being able to touch him in the funeral parlour. For the years of forgetting, and the years before that. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He doesn't know how long they stand like that, clutched together in the half lit lot. For once, Richie isn't worried about it, isn't worried about who could be looking or what it could mean. For as long as he holds onto him, there's just Eddie, just them. Keeping each other together like they were always meant to do it. Once he thinks it, the notion buries itself in -- that he was meant to do this, always. That nagging lack, that feeling of just going through the motions, has always existed because of what he left behind here, and finding Eddie feels like finding a part of himself. Suddenly it _hurts_, aching deep in his chest like it could pull him apart, and when Eddie finally takes a shuddering breath against him, Richie realizes he's crying too.

“I don’t think I can go home,” Eddie laughs, sad and desperate into the fabric of Richie’s suit. His voice is hoarse and stretched thin. “Shit.” 

“Come home with me,” Richie says immediately, before he can overthink it, before he can take it back. “Home -- back to the hotel. The inn. Come...”

“Okay,” Eddie says, nodding against him. “Okay.”

On the drive home, Eddie reaches over, tangling their fingers together on Richie's thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little late! I extended the number of chapters since I've written more than I realized; next update on Wednesday.  
This fandom moves so fast that I feel like fic gets immediately buried, so if you're seeing this and enjoying, pls don't be afraid to leave a comment. <3 
> 
> twitter: @unfinishedduet  
tumblr: @richtoziers


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie laughs, and for a minute they linger in comfortable silence. Maybe it’s the sex, or maybe it’s the fond, half disbelieving way he keeps catching Eddie looking at him, but there’s a dangerous notion in Richie’s head that they could just stay like this. It all feels so stupidly, impossibly easy.
> 
> “Hey,” Eddie says, like he’s reading his mind. “Are we gonna talk about this?”
> 
> Which... is less easy. Right.
> 
> \--
> 
> Confessions and relief, mostly. Everyone is a pain in the ass in their own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a smutty chapter! if you're not into that, feel free to scroll down to the third segment for actual plot-ish stuff.

One night turns into two, and early on Sunday morning Richie finds himself in the grocery store trying to remember what the fuck Eddie can actually eat. Most nuts, he can remember, are out, so he forgoes peanut butter. He’s not entirely sure whether the lactose intolerance ended up being real or another manifestation of his mom’s psychosis, so he opts for rice milk just in case. Eggs seem like they should be safe (another memory -- Eddie at his kitchen table, scarfing down breakfast on a Saturday morning as if he lived there just as much as Richie did), and rye bread for toast for entirely selfish reasons. He spends about ten minutes reading ingredients on the back of juice jugs before going with some weird brand of organic orange juice -- no sugar, no preservatives -- that he thinks Eddie will hopefully approve of.

He’s halfway through the self check out before it occurs to him that his room doesn’t have more than a minifridge and a microwave, and he has to abandon all of his purchases at the scanner like a complete asshole.

Eddie’s barely kissed him, and he’s already making a fool of himself. Fuck.

“There you are.”

Eddie looks like he’s barely awake when Richie gets back to the room, halfway between the bathroom and the vanity by the bed. His hair isn’t combed yet, and his lips look wet like he was just brushing his teeth. There’s a tiny sliver of hip showing between his very practical pajama pants and tshirt, and Richie has to look away from it, quickly, when he feels the back of his neck getting hot.

“There was, uh, a line up,” he lies, lifting up his consolation prize of bakery danishes and cheap coffee. So maybe he had panicked.

“At the gas station?” Eddie asks, eyeing up the label stamped on the paper cups with amusement. Then, frowning: “Is whatever’s in that box gluten free?”

Richie could strangle him, he really could. 

Setting the food down on the vanity, he’s acutely aware of how small the room is with the two of them in it. He’s spent the last 48 hours giving Eddie as much space as he can, given the circumstances, but the bed situation has meant being intimately reminded of how Eddie’s body feels next to his while he sleeps, of the sound of Eddie’s breathing in the night. After the first night when Eddie had passed out next to him, his cheeks still damp, neither of them had mentioned the three other unoccupied rooms on the floor. 

“Did you know you snore?” Eddie says, suddenly reaching around him to prod curiously at the cardboard box of pastries like a complete hypocrite. “Has anyone ever told you that? Like a fucking walrus. I woke up in the middle of the night thinking I was going to have to call animal control, Rich, have you ever been tested for sleep apn--”

Richie can’t help himself. An entire weekend of casual intimacy, of Eddie’s bedhead, and Eddie’s bitching and of stolen glances catches up to him all at once. He catches Eddie’s wrist in his hand, fingers circled, thumb resting against the jut of bone. With a pull that’s barely a pull at all, he draws him in, his other hand finding the back of Eddie’s head, and this time when their lips meet, Richie is ready.

When Eddie’s mouth parts in a sharp inhale, Richie follows, his tongue carefully testing the boundary. He doesn’t want to go too fast, despite his racing pulse; doesn’t want to rush this, or put too much on Eddie when the last week has been trying enough. He could be happy enough with this, with Eddie leaning into his touch, with Eddie’s fingers flexing into the sleeve of his jacket. He tells himself that, anyways. In reality, his blood feels hot in his veins, the sharp clean smell of Eddie’s skin and the wet heat of his mouth threatening to make him frantic.

Eddie goes easily, leaning their bodies together like he’s been waiting to do it. He hums eagerly when Richie’s hands move restlessly along the hem of his stupid oversized shirt, dipping just slightly underneath to find warm skin and coarse hair along his stomach.

“Take these off,” Eddie mumbles hoarsely, and when he reaches for Richie’s glasses he’s not nearly so careful as before. In an instant, Richie is blind and the glasses are discarded god knows where, and he’s trying not to think of what else he wants to take off. “You keep jabbing me in the fucking nose.”

Richie’s laughing when he kisses him again, something full and happy and desperate blooming in his chest. Eddie tastes like toothpaste when he deepens the kiss with his tongue, proving his earlier assumption right, and Richie feels dizzy with the realization -- he’s _ tasting _ Eddie, he can _ have _ this. The hand in Eddie’s hair tightens, and Eddie groans, his hips jerking forward seemingly unconsciously, and Richie is suddenly seeing stars.

“Damnit,” he mutters, his teeth bumping Eddie’s lip, earning a soft noise of approval or reproach -- he can’t tell which. His hand might be shaking when he lets go of Eddie’s wrist to close over that warm, obnoxious curve of his hipbone instead, fingers travelling restlessly across the expanse of it before moving up to explore the coarse hair dusting Eddie’s navel instead.

Ducking his head, his mouth finds Eddie’s still-rough jaw, the soft spot under his chin, the long, hot expanse of his throat. He could leave a mark there, he thinks deliriously, mouthing over the flutter of Eddie’s pulse without indulging, satisfying himself with scraping his teeth lightly over it instead, it’d be easy...

“Richie --” Eddie breathes, rough and wavering and wanting in a way that goes right to Richie’s dick. “_Richie.” _

Eddie’s thighs are surprisingly muscular when Richie sets his hands there, but he’s easy to hoist up nonetheless. The noise of surprise that it gets him is satisfying, and Eddie’s mouth is on his, clumsy but enthusiastic as Richie carries him on the short trip to the bed, only quitting when Richie flops him back onto the mattress.

“Travel-sized,” he jokes, somewhere in the vicinity of Eddie’s temple as he climbs ontop of him. Anticipation makes him needy, his hands roving up over Eddie’s waist and along his chest, greedily pushing his tshirt up to expose pale skin. His mouth finds Eddie’s throat again, deciding all at once that he’s got unfinished business there.

“Travel...” repeats Eddie, and his eyes narrow before widening. With a sudden force, he’s shoving at Richie’s chest. It’s the shock more than the strength that sends Richie toppling off of him, but he can’t help noticing that Eddie is surprisingly strong. 

“Hold that thought,” he says, one finger raising firmly as he scrambles out from underneath Richie. “Just -- hold on.” 

It takes a moment for it to click: Eddie scrambles towards the bathroom, and more specifically his toiletries bag (at least it’s not a fanny pack) which looks big enough to carry the travel-sized version of literally everything and anything inside it. Like the conveniently small bottle of hand sanitizer Richie had watched him constantly reuse at the funeral.

Ah.

\--

Richie checks his watch for maybe the third time. He tries not to, but he does, and he can’t help himself from eventually calling out.

“Eddie?” 

No reply, and Richie groans, letting himself fall back against the mattress. 

“We can just raincheck this,” he offers loudly, rubbing at his eyesocket under the glasses -- after the first ten minutes it seemed stupid to lay around blind. “Until I can like, have a bleach bath if you want. Which is what I’m assuming you’re doing in there, since it’s been about half an hour. Eddie!”

There’s still no answer. Richie thumps his head on a thin pillow, and he wets his lips. “Yeah, cool, I get it,” he continues dully. “Not like I haven’t already waited nearly twenty years. What’s another hour, or three?” 

Actually. The more he thinks about it... Richie sits upright abruptly, just in time for Eddie to open the door.

“Hi,” Eddie says sheepishly.

“Hi,” Richie answers, suspicion overtaking him. “Yeah. Quick question: do you usually carry all that shit with you?”

“Really? Is that what you have to say to me right now?” counters Eddie disbelievingly. 

“Yeah, because I need to know how many condoms you keep on you at all times,” Richie says, playing it entirely straight. “What sort of variety your little pharmacy in there has. Since, you know, I’m probably at least twice the size of you.” 

“Fuck you.”

“Well that’s how it’s gonna have to be if you don’t have magnum, Eds. That’s what I mean.” 

“Does this usually work for you?” Eddie asks, despite the fact that it seems to be working now. He’s within grabbing distance, pissy expression on his face notwithstanding, and moving closer. When Richie reaches out and pulls him in by his tshirt, there’s a pink flush hidden on the skin underneath. Cute. “Do you insult all your conquests, or am I supposed to be flattered?”

“_Conquests,” _Richie cracks up, pulling until Eddie is kneeling on the bed with him. He doesn’t fight when Eddie determinedly strips him of his jacket and shirt and pushes him firmly back. He’s perfectly content to laugh up at him, to trace the curve of Eddie’s hip from this position instead. If Eddie wants to take the reins for awhile, Richie is more than happy to indulge. “Is that what you are? I mean you’re right. I’m very popular. It’s really working well for me, the whole, uh -- comedy schtick. I’m a rockstar in Cali. I’m pretty much drowning in pussy.”

“Uh huh,” Eddie answers skeptically, his hands following the waistline of Richie’s jeans to the middle then making quick (if inelegant) work of unzipping him and shuffling them down. There’s something undeniably hot about the efficiency of the whole thing, although Richie supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. Safety first, and all that. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m not the one who showed up for a funeral ready to rock and roll,” Richie points out. If he keeps talking maybe it’ll make up for how his brain feels like it’s about to short out, to say nothing of how he’s almost embarrassingly hard when Eddie tugs his boxer briefs down and away, and oh, god, this is happening. Eddie is here, practically in his lap, still very much clothed while Richie is very much _ not. _Being pushed around is all well and good, but Eddie is simultaneously leaving him no time to enjoy it, and moving entirely too slowly. 

“That’s all you, buddy,” he babbles on, wishing Eddie would touch him or _ something _. “This clearly isn’t your first rodeo. I’m kind of impressed.”

“Oh my god,” Eddie scowls, using his teeth tearing into the wrapper of a condom he seems to produce out of nowhere. “Beep _ beep_, Richie.”

Then Eddie’s hand is wrapped around the base of his cock, firm and warm as he uses the other to roll the condom down the length of him, and Richie thinks he might actually black out for a couple of seconds. 

“Oh look,” Eddie says, all eyebrows and sarcasm. “It fits.”

Richie has never been so happy to shut up in his entire life. Pushing himself up, he wraps an arm around Eddie’s neck, grinning against the surprised noise Eddie makes into his mouth, kissing him hard and hungry. It could take minutes or hours for Eddie’s clothes to wind up in a pile on the floor, his body tense and warm against the sheets as gasps under Richie’s touch. Richie loses track of time pretty quickly. He’s too busy focusing on the sound Eddie makes when he curls his fingers just right, to the light sheen of sweat that’s started to collect across his collarbones. 

“Like that?”

It’s a rhetorical question. He’s asking to be a dick, more than anything else. Afterall, it isn’t like he’s giving Eddie much room to answer; stretching his fingers out obscenely at the same time as he scrapes his teeth along the line of Eddie’s solar plexus to draw out another strangled sound.

There’s a splatter of freckles underneath the front of Eddie’s right shoulder that Richie keeps pressing his mouth to, over and over like a bad habit. He’s trying to resist the urge to jerk off as he works Eddie open little by little, his own erection achingly hard where it’s trapped between his own abdomen and Eddie’s thigh.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Eddie utters finally, pushing at Richie’s arm with the heel of his palm. He arches up demandingly, pushing their hips together in a way that sends electricity up the back of Richie’s scalp. “That’s enough, come on.”

“Now you’re in a rush?”

“_Richie.” _

There’s a (travel sized) bottle of lube that Eddie brought back with him from the bathroom. Richie’s fingers are already wet with it, which makes uncapping it a second time a little difficult, but he manages nonetheless. Biting back a groan, he spreads it over his own cock, taking the opportunity to look at Eddie -- really look at him -- while he leans back to slick himself up. 

Eddie with his lips damp and swollen, and his cheeks flushed with color, might be Richie’s new favourite thing. Not might, he corrects dazedly, definitely. Eddie’s breathing hard, and his eyes are closed like he needs to take a second, like he has to ground himself before they go any further. His lashes are dark, dark, dark against his cheeks, and he’s _ beautiful, _and Richie can’t help but lean in and kiss his eyelids. Eddie huffs out a laugh, low and sweet and Richie’s chest twists with hopeless fondness.

If he wasn’t absolutely fucked before, there’s no question about it now.

Pushing Eddie’s thigh back, Richie uses one hand to line himself up. “You’re not gonna, like, seize up on me, right?” Richie runs his mouth on stupid, nervous impulse. “Have an asthma attack?” 

“Shut u-- _ ah _.” 

As Richie pushes forward, Eddie tilts his head back against against the mattress. His lips part, a wordless noise drawn from somewhere deep in his chest as Richie moves. It’s a noise worth chasing, if Richie could find the focus. Instead, the white-hot heat of Eddie’s body taking him in threatens to make him forget his own name, and it’s all he can do to sink further into him.

“Shit,” Eddie breathes. “Shit.”

With the hand that isn’t gripped tight to Eddie’s hip, Richie reaches up to cradle his face instead, his thumb touching the corner of parted lips, his fingers lingering against the dip of his temple. Eddie’s skin is hot under his touch, and his eyes look blown out already, even if Richie is taking it slow, slow, slow. 

“Okay?” he asks, for real this time, his voice sounding hoarse and far off to his own ears. “Eds, you okay?”

His mouth moves under Richie’s thumb, twisting into a disbelieving smile, and a second later Richie feels a heel at the small of his back, drawing him further in.

“Never better,” Eddie answers thickly, lifting his hips and pulling Richie forward with the grip of his leg all at once. “Now come _ on.” _

Richie doesn’t have to be asked twice. With a choked groan he pulls back just a little, then pushes forward again, letting himself fill Eddie up without restraint this time. It earns him a nice noise, and a shudder through the body underneath his, so he does it again, and again, building up a steady rhythm until he’s fucking Eddie in earnest. 

Eddie takes him easily, eagerly, more enthusiastically than Richie could have dared to hope for. His body jostles pleasantly, the stupid inn mattress bouncing underneath them, and deliriously Richie finds himself realizing that for as much of a pain in the ass he’s been, the inherent grossness of fucking on hotel sheets somehow escaped Eddie’s attention. It’s funny enough that the next moan he buries into Eddie’s neck is half laughter, only melting into something more affected when Eddie reaches up and holds him there with fingers buried in his hair.

“I _ missed _ you,” Eddie admits hoarsely, although it takes a minute for Richie’s brain to catch up and hear him. Once he does, the heat in his gut is suddenly fire, and he thrusts forward harder, nails digging into the muscle of Eddie’s thigh as _ want want want _thrums through him.

“I missed you too,” he manages, rubbing his face into Eddie’s neck to breathe him in. Impossibly, he wants to get even closer, so he reaches between them instead. He’s so stupidly close already, and he’s almost undone by the look Eddie gives him: twisted up with desperation and relief as Richie wraps his hand around Eddie’s cock and strokes. 

“Like that,” Eddie says, something needy bleeding into his voice, stuttering under the touch. His hips jerk up, fucking himself into Richie’s fist. “Please, just --”

With Eddie’s voice strung out like that, his body tense as a whip, Richie can wait. He can wait until the end of the fucking world if it means getting Eddie off, if it means getting to feel Eddie come undone underneath him, coming undone _ because _ of him. Greedily, he pushes Eddie’s thighs further apart, digs his knee into the mattress and lays into him harder, his hand stroking in tandem.

“Come on,” Richie coaxes. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You look so fucking good Eds, come on --”

With a cry, Eddie breaks, head thrown back against the bed as he spills over Richie’s knuckles. His body jerks, tightening down around Richie’s cock as Richie strokes him through it, and time gets lost again. All Richie knows is that when Eddie finally pushes his hand away, he’s still buried to the hilt inside of him, dizzy and aching to come.

“Richie,” Eddie mumbles, wrapping loose, warm arms around his shoulders. He holds him, and Richie feels a kiss pressed to his cheek, the side of his mouth, his eye. “Richie, you too. Come on. Just like that.”

It only takes a few hard thrusts, pressing up into the warmth of him as Eddie murmurs into his skin and rubs fingers against his scalp. Then Richie is coming too, shuddering against Eddie’s smaller frame, speechless and wrapped up with him. 

Once he can see again, he pulls out carefully, making clumsy work of rolling over and disposing of the condom in the wastebin next to the bed. Eddie has barely moved, still sprawled, still breathing heavy. There’s a smile on his face that Richie absolutely needs to kiss before he pulls him in close, tucking Eddie in against his shoulder and under his chin.

Eventually, they’ll have to get up. Probably sooner rather than later, once the haze starts to lift and Eddie realizes just how gross the bedding is now. For just a few minutes, though, Richie would like to stay like this -- his brain a pleasant mess of static, his body slow and loose. 

\--

Later, when the sheets have been stripped and Richie’s had to reheat his coffee, Eddie clears his throat.

“Twenty years, huh?” 

His voice is goading more than sentimental, and Richie tosses a pillow at him.

“Don’t act so surprised,” he counters. “I know it’s probably hard for you to wrap your head around, since no one’s ever wanted to fuck you before. It’s a curse that I bear alone.”

He realizes his mistake as soon as the words have left his mouth.

“Must be hereditary then,” Eddie muses. “Since your mom was pretty into fucking me, too.”

“That was too easy!” Richie exclaims, but the triumphant look on Eddie’s face is making him feel all warm regardless, and he grins. “I set you right up for that.”

Eddie laughs, and for a minute they linger in comfortable silence. Maybe it’s the sex, or maybe it’s the fond, half disbelieving way he keeps catching Eddie looking at him, but there’s a dangerous notion in Richie’s head that they could just stay like this. It all feels so stupidly, impossibly easy.

“Hey,” Eddie says, like he’s reading his mind. “Are we gonna talk about this?”

Which... is less easy. Right.

“Do we have to?” Richie groans and slumps his shoulders, exaggerating the reaction dramatically since it’s far easier than facing it head-on. “Wouldn’t you rather just have sex again?”

Raising a finger in reprimand, Eddie’s face turns almost comically stern. “That’s not funny,” Eddie tells him firmly. 

“So you _ don’t _ want to have sex again.”

“I didn’t say that,” Eddie clarifies, too quickly, and Richie smirks. 

“Cool,” Richie says casually, smoothly reaching over as if he plans to unbutton Eddie’s shirt right then and there. Eddie flusters, slapping at his hands, and he doesn’t share Richie’s grin.

“That’s _ not _ funny,” Eddie repeats sharply, shoving Richie’s hands away. “God, you’re an asshole. Would being serious for more than two minutes kill you? Do you have some sort of defect?” 

“Yes, actually,” Richie says gravely. “It’s terminal.” 

“Rich,” Eddie snaps curtly. “Fuck. The whole childhood reunion is really romantic until you refuse to actually grow up.” 

Screwing his eyes shut, Richie leans back into the couch. It shouldn’t be this difficult; the very thought of looking at this shouldn’t make his palms sweat, especially not with Eddie here and willing right in front of him. That’s what he wanted, isn’t it?

“Alright,” he says finally, drumming his hands against his own thighs restlessly. “Alright, Eds.”

That seems to make Eddie happy for a moment, and he nods, then the satisfaction of getting his way seems to fade out of his expression. His mouth moves uncertainly, his eyes turning grave and unsure as he realizes neither of them know where they’re starting.

“I--” Eddie says, then shuts his mouth to reconsider his words. Richie waits, anxiously trying to gather up his own thoughts and turn them into something coherent. It’s hard, when everything feels so scattered; he looks at Eddie and he feels just as strongly as he always has -- as he _ knows _he always has, but it still seems like there’s pieces he can’t see. He still doesn’t know how to explain ten years of absence, or what the word is for missing something so strongly without knowing what it was you lost.

“Okay,” Eddie says finally, putting his elbows on his knees as if to concentrate. “Do you remember leaving Derry? Or like -- do you remember the year after you left?”

Richie does, vaguely, but it seems like Eddie is looking for something specific. Mostly he remembers eating rice for every meal and occasionally begging his parents for enough money to pay the phone bill. That whole first year had been permeated by miserable loneliness, and a paralyzing homesickness that he could never find the source of. He shakes his head.

“You left before me,” Eddie reminds, wetting his lips. “I didn’t, uh -- I needed more time to sort shit out with my mom. And you were going out west, you had this whole plan, and you asked me to come.”

“I remember that,” Richie says with a smile, only realizing that he does after Eddie says it. He hadn’t had a real plan, just enough of one to try and convince Eddie to ditch town with him -- an apartment, a shitty job, a plane ticket. Some cash folded up in a coffee can. They had talked about it a million times over the years, and Richie had never dared to think it could mean what he wanted it to. 

“You used to look at me like -- ” Eddie hesitates, like he’s still unsure even now, even with the ghost of Richie’s mouth on his throat. Richie’s chest aches. “No one ever looked at me like you did. And you asked me to come with you, and it was like. The best thing that ever happened to me. It was such a dumb, impractical fucking plan but I wanted to so badly and I couldn’t.”

“Why didn’t you come later?” Richie’s throat feels dry, all of a sudden. There’s a pressure behind his eyes, and he reaches out to put a hand on Eddie’s leg as if it’ll steady him. “I would’ve put you up.”

“Richie,” Eddie says, turning to search his face with those dark, serious eyes. His lips twitch downwards. “I -- I called you. Like, a couple weeks after you got out there. And you said you were getting set up, and we’d figure it out, and your voice sounded. Far away? I called a few times.”

There’s the trace of something there -- Eddie’s voice over the shitty landline he had in that first apartment. Sitting on the floor on the mattress and accepting the collect call...

“Uh, when I got the offer from NYU,” Eddie continues. “I called again, and -- you barely like. You barely sounded like you knew who I was, Rich. I called to ask what I should do and you were so wrapped up in your new life out there it was like you forgot about me completely. I asked if I should reject the offer and fly out and you didn’t know what I was talking about and I just -- I felt so fucking _ stupid_.”

Richie’s throat feels like it’s closing up, ice in the pit of his belly. He shakes his head again more firmly: to dispel the wet feeling behind his eyes, or to rattle his memories into place -- or both, he isn’t sure. His fingers are tight against Eddie’s thigh, and when he opens his mouth to speak, for once he has nothing to say.

“So I went to college,” Eddie says anyways, giving a smile that doesn’t look right. His voice is fast, like if he stops talking for even a second he might not be able to keep going. “And I guess after a while I must have just -- forgotten about it too. I graduated and I got a job and a life. Then when I ran into you last week it all came back.”

“That’s how I felt,” Richie replies, taking a shuddering breath. “Like it clicked.”

“I wanted to be like. Pissed off or embarrassed or something” Eddie says quietly. His thumb traces the bumps of Richie’s knuckles where they rest against his leg. “But instead I just felt like... instead you just kept _ looking _at me like that, like you did when we were kids, and I’ve been trying to figure out what that means.”

“Shit,” Richie says. “Shit.”

“I’m not imagining it,” Eddie insists, to himself or to Richie. There’s a pleading look to his eyes that feels so fucking familiar Richie could choke on it, hopeful and scared and wanting more than anything to be recognized for what it is. That desperate, painful need to be known. “I thought I was for years, but --”

“No,” Richie interjects. Finally, something cracks inside of him, the need to soothe Eddie’s anxiety swelling up powerfully enough to drown out his own.

“Fuck no,” he laughs hoarsely. He can feel the blood rushing between his ears and he turns his hand over, threading their fingers together and squeezing. “Eds, I feel like I’ve spent half my fucking life looking at you, and like I’ve spent the other half looking _ for _ you. Jesus.”

Eddie lets out a deep breath, the weight of the confession leaving him, and Richie smiles, shuffling closer on the couch.

“It’s been you since I was like, old enough to know it was anyone,” Richie says, jostling their shoulders together. His heart is in his throat, and his palms are still damp but it’s okay. Eddie leans his head over onto his shoulder, and it’s okay. “Always you. I was just scared. I’m still scared. But running into you has made Derry like, 800 times more bearable. And for being such a neurotic little jerk, you’re still super hot, so.”

“Still?” Eddie snorts, turning his face in to mumble against Richie’s sweater. When he tilts his chin to look down, Richie notes with a wolfish satisfaction the flush on his cheeks. “Don’t be a dick. We both know I was _ not _ hot in high school, you’re just making fun of me. Fuck off.”

“What!” Richie exclaims, shoving at him. “Oh man. You really have no idea, huh?” He sighs, over dramatic and dreamy, staring into the distance like he’s admiring the Eddie of Christmas Past in his mind’s eye. “You wore the ugliest shit in the entire world and I still thought you were smokin’. The metallic jingle of your allergy alert bracelet was a siren song. I still can’t look at a fannypack without getting a semi.”

“You’re so gross,” Eddie groans. “I can’t believe I slept with you.”

“That’s not what you were saying an hour ago,” Richie argues, pressing his grin obnoxiously against the side of Eddie’s face. He rubs his cheek there, scraping shadow against Eddie’s skin while he squirms away. “You’re crazy about me. I bet I could do a pretty good impression, actually, if you wanted the instant replay --”

“No,” Eddie says, smushing Richie’s face under his hand. He’s so easy to wind up, with pink creeping up his neck and his eyes wide and sharp, his other hand untangling from Richie’s grip to brace against his chest instead. Helpless, hopeless, desperate endearment washes over Richie, and he laughs as Eddie continues to protest. “No, no, no. Be _ nice _for once in your life.”

“I can be nice!” his voice is muffled by Eddie’s palm. “I can be nice just for you, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Jesus, I hate that one.”

There are smudges on Richie’s glasses when Eddie removes his hand, and he takes the excuse to pull them off, looping an arm around Eddie’s neck again and leaning their foreheads together. Eddie eyes him suspiciously at first, then seems to relax, leaning into the touch with a sigh. It’s kind of pathetic, really, how soft and warm that makes him feel. He’s spent so long not letting himself touch Eddie -- touch _ anyone _ \-- like this, that the barest things are making him punch-drunk. 

“I’m glad I found you again,” he says quietly, softened by the way Eddie’s fingers trace circles against his leg almost unconsciously. “For real. I mean it. I’d like... I’d like to try and, uh. I mean the distance will be annoying, but we could figure that out pretty quick. I’ve got more than 400 bucks tucked away this time, so I’m sure we could...”

“Are you asking me to go steady right now?” Eddie asks, his voice tight like he’s trying not to laugh. “Richie Tozier, are you asking me to be your boyfriend?”

“Pretty gay, huh,” Richie answers, and with a swoop in his belly he realizes there’s something freeing about it underneath the joke. The initial static shock dissipates, and is replaced pretty quickly by relief when Eddie laughs. He almost wants to say it again, to claim the word on his tongue in a way that feels like Eddie’s breath on his mouth, like Eddie’s hand on his waist, like something _ good _. 

_ Later, _ he thinks, as Eddie leans in to kiss him, and his stomach flutters like he’s thirteen years old. Later, he’ll test it out, practice saying it. Practice making it his own until it doesn’t feel ugly anymore, doesn’t make him feel exposed and vulnerable. He’ll say it, and he’ll keep saying it until the only thing left attached to the word is the overwhelming feeling of lightness he gets when he’s standing next to Eddie. 

The feeling of coming home, finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: sorry, no chapter tonight! i still have some tweaking i want to do, and work has been a little wild this week. i will do my best to have it up before monday. thanks for understanding! 
> 
> if all goes accordingly, friday's chapter should wrap things up. 
> 
> i want to thank you all for reading, commenting, and sharing this story around. it means the absolute world and i haven't had this much fun writing for a fandom in a hot minute.
> 
> come be my friend  
twitter: @unfinishedduet  
tumblr: @richtoziers


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This place seemed a lot bigger when we were kids,” Eddie surmises. He’s eating ice cream out of a little paper bowl, and Richie keeps thinking that if he kissed him it would probably taste like vanilla. That’s a throwback; it’s almost funny, how little things change.
> 
> \--
> 
> Summer can't last forever. Dreams and plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an endless thank you to m'love @pepperprints for the support and editing on these two final chapters in particular.

Monday and Tuesday are a flurry. Apparently blowing work off to do a whole lot of fuck all has caused more of a stir than Richie realized, and the crew is starting to get antsy. Normally, that would stress him out -- for all the hot air he blows, he’s never quite gotten the hang of this part of the job. A stage and a mic is one thing, and he’s practiced his whole life being the center of attention. Being jerked around behind the scenes is a whole other ballgame, one that annoys him more than he’d like it to. 

This week however, he’s been waking up with Eddie in the hotel bed next to him, and it’s hard to even keep his feet on the ground. He can be jabbed with makeup brushes and walked up and down this nightmare of a town -- Richie is fucking untouchable. 

“I hope you’re enjoying whatever homestyle pussy you’ve been getting,” the director says. It’s Tuesday afternoon, and they’re on a quick break. Richie is distracted thinking about what kind of takeout he’s going to pick up on the way back to the inn. “It put us about a week behind schedule. We should have been wrapped up on this shit last week.”

“It’s import, actually,” Richie answers mildly, without looking up from his phone. “I flew your sister in from Memphis. She didn’t tell you?” He taps out a message to Eddie: _ pizza tonight? or did webmd dx you that allergy too? _

The last three hours feel like a fucking eternity, but finally, finally the crew starts to pack up. Despite his desperation to ditch, Richie even helps them load up the vans, hauling camera cases and clumsily stacking up crates of shit he doesn’t know how to use. He figures he probably owes them that much, and besides, Eddie’s in a meeting with some lawyer for another hour anyways.

It’s dusk by the time everyone has cleared out. There’s a party at the motel on the highway where the crew is staying, a celebratory shitshow before everyone has to catch a flight in the morning and be back to LA. Richie was invited -- he usually is, the crew guys seem to like him even when management doesn’t -- but he blew them off, and as he walks back to where his car is parked, something like melancholy starts to creep up on him.

He should be homesick for the city too, or at the very least restless to be on the road again. Derry itself has never felt anything short of cursed, and being here now, as an adult, hasn’t shown him otherwise. No swell of nostalgia kicks up in his chest as he cruises down the darkened main street, but something else does pull at him, making him want to stay.

“I thought you were bringing pizza.”

  
Eddie is still in the parking lot when Richie arrives, lingering while Richie pulls into a spot and shuts off the engine. His eyes look tired, and he raises his eyebrows at Richie’s empty-handedness, but there’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth that gives him away. He’s wearing a polo shirt that’s buttoned too high up, and khakis. He looks very, very uncool and Richie loves him.

“You didn’t text me back,” Richie points out, shrugging. “I’m not gonna waste money on food you’re just going to complain about.”

“I didn’t text you back because you were being an ass,” Eddie says. “You know, like now.”

Feeling brave, Richie reaches forward, his hands finding Eddie’s hips to draw him in. The expression it earns him is half challenging, half surprise, and Richie takes the dare, bending his head down to press their lips together in a lingering kiss.

“Nice to see you too, bitch,” he says, and Eddie scowls. “You want to get pizza?”

  


\--

  


Richie is beginning to feel like half of Eddie’s allergies only count when he feels like being annoying. Pizza is a case in point - he can remember Eddie making a big deal about picking toppings off when they were kids, but he seems happy enough to devour it now. Then again, Richie has missed out on a lot of years. Maybe more of those have been spent unwrapping himself from Sonia Kaspbrak’s threads than he’s giving Eddie credit for.

“So you’re done now?” Eddie asks, around a mouthful of cheese. “No more Derry after-school special?”

Richie makes a face, that wave of sadness licking at him again, and he shrugs. He’s been dragging his heels, trying to drag this out for all its worth, as if leaving Derry will break whatever spell has allowed this to happen.

“Yeah, guess it’s over,” he admits, and Eddie narrows his eyes. 

“Yeah? All of it?” 

Richie stares at him. “Wow. That was subtle,” he observes. “You been waiting for a chance to slide that attachment issue in there, Eds?” 

At least it’s a mutual concern. Besides, can he really blame him? Richie’s chest still hurts from the residual guilt, and he’s not even sure how the whole thing happened. He can’t analyze it too much, or it just starts to go in circles, guilt and regret, guilt and regret, over and over again until he’s imagining what it would have been like if he _ had _brought Eddie with him all those years ago.

Would he have ever gotten the courage to say something? Would they have just drifted apart in the end anyways?

“You’re the one with an image to uphold,” Eddie replies. “Mr. Worldwide tour. Seems like a fair question, given the circumstances.”

Richie deserves that, probably. 

“It’s not over,” he answers firmly. Reaching over, he tugs at a strand of Eddie’s hair. “That’s not what I meant. When do you fly out?”

“Early Thursday morning,” Eddie replies, swatting at his hand. “You’re getting grease in my hair, you freak.”

“So we’ve got one more day,” Richie says, the wheels in his brain turning. He can postpone his flight -- leave Thursday too. One more day won’t make that much of a difference, and it would be worth it to have another night with Eddie. It’s indulgent but not unreasonably so, at least not until his mouth keeps moving. “Unless you wanna come back to Cali with me. I hit the road in a couple of weeks to do shows, but --”

“Richie,” Eddie smiles sadly, blinking like he might actually be considering it, before shaking his head. “I... can’t blow off work for that much longer. I’m already on extended bereavement.”

Disappointment twists through him, even if he knew that would be the answer. He’s abandoned the annoying act of pulling at Eddie’s hair and his hand just kind of lingers instead. He wishes, suddenly and forcefully, that Eddie would ask him the same thing -- to drop it all and come to New York instead. He wonders what Eddie’s apartment looks like, what color his bedsheets are, what his favourite coffee place is. He wonders how he would fit in with Eddie’s life. 

“Tomorrow, though,” he insists. “And then maybe in a couple of weeks we can meet back up. You can come see my show when I’m in the city.”

Eddie winces. “Do I have to?” 

“I’ll give you the VIP treatment!” Richie shoves at the side of his head. “You can watch from backstage. I’ll sign a tshirt for you. I’ll even blow you on the tour bus.”

“Wow,” Eddie drawls, rolling his eyes. “All that, huh?”

“Maybe not the bus,” Richie admits, wobbling a hand midair and grinning. “It’s like, more of a van, at this point. Every ticket sale counts, Eds. If you come to a show, maybe one day they’ll let me have a bus.”

“You’re not even getting me in free? I have to buy my own ticket? Fuck that.”

“Don’t you make like, a lot of money?” Richie asks, though once the question leaves his mouth, the more uncertain he is. “Do you? I sure hope you do, since you clearly don’t work for fun.” Adjusting his glasses, he adds. “There’s a job market for... whatever that is in California, right? We can make it work.” Pausing, Richie tries, sincerely, to be serious. “I want it to work.” 

There’s an expression on Eddie’s face that looks like it’s trying to be a scowl but can’t quite follow through, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop and for Richie to be on his ass again. When the joke never comes, he shakes his head.

“If your act doesn’t make me break up with you on the spot,” he says finally. “Then we can talk.” 

Maybe it’s fast, but it feels good, victory making Richie’s face hurt from smiling so hard. He doesn’t know the last time he felt excited about something, even if it’s a vague maybe-plan. He throws his arms up in the air, and Eddie raises a hand to cut him short: 

“I like that this whole thing you’ve got worked out doesn’t involve any relocating on your part whatsoever,” he complains. “You’re just planning on dragging me across the country and I’m supposed to thank you for it? Is that it?”

“West coast best coast,” Richie beams. 

  


\--

  


Leaving together after high school had started out as a joke: like how two people promise to marry each other if they’re still single by 40. Neither of them knew what to do with themselves -- Richie on account of his general aversion to following through on what his parents expected of him, and Eddie on account of being unable to determine his own desires from his mother’s. 

The first summer came and went; despite spending his entire life talking about getting out of Derry as soon as possible, it made more sense for Richie to hang around and work rent-free for a little while. Besides, Eddie was doing the same thing, supposedly for the same reason, although Richie expected it had a little more to do with his mom than either of them could talk about.

Out of Mrs. Kaspbrak’s approved list of future prospects for her precious son, starting a brand new life across the country with Richie was very low on the list, so Richie should’ve known better when at the last minute Eddie’s feet turned cold. 

“I still think you should just come,” Richie says, frowning as he pulls masking tape across cardboard. It makes a satisfying sound, and it smells good, and that’s almost enough for the excitement of moving to outweigh the heavy feeling he’s had in his gut all week. Almost. “We still have time to pack your shit and get you a ticket.”

A few feet away, with his legs crossed in front of him, Eddie shakes his head. He’s got a sharpie in his hand, and he’s carefully copying the new address onto boxes as Richie tapes them. They’re a two man assembly line -- Eddie has nicer penmanship.

“I promised my mom I’d at least wait til I heard back from a couple schools,” he says. He doesn’t look up at Richie as he speaks, concentrating hard on the task at hand. “I just have to wait it out a little longer. I applied to like, three within transit of you. It’ll be fine.”

“So then what’s the harm in coming early?” Richie frowns. “Your mom will be mad? Who gives a shit, you’ll be a plane ride away anyways, dude. Fuck it.”

“She won’t help me pay for school if I just ditch town,” Eddie answers, his voice getting tighter. “Do you know how long it takes the average person to pay off student loans? Are you gonna pay my tuition washing dishes, Rich? Use your fucking head for once. Just because you don’t give a shit about higher education doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t -- which is still fucking dumb, by the way.”

There’s a bitter taste in Richie’s mouth, and he swallows it down. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that Eddie is right. He knows that it’s the practical thing to do, and that it won’t matter in the end anyways -- it’s just a couple of months, and then they’ll be reunited again. In that time he can get the apartment set up, he can map out a route to the closest pharmacy, he can stock the fridge.

Still, a louder part of him feels icy with dread. Like an alarm bell that he can’t shut off. Ever since Eddie admitted he wasn’t coming, the whole trip has started to feel more like an ending than a beginning.

“I’ll be there in like two months,” Eddie continues, sounding belatedly guilty when Richie doesn’t bother to bicker back with him. “By which point I’m sure you’ll have already wrecked the place and I’ll have to clean it up.”

“Yeah, okay,” Richie answers, giving his head a shake to try and dispel the anxious feeling between his eyes. “Two months.”

  


\--

  


They spend the first half of their last day in bed, which Richie should have figured would happen. Not that he’s complaining: the way Eddie’s throat moves when his breath catches is still a very new, very enticing concept. He could get addicted to watching Eddie flop back all satisfied and blissed out, and the thought of learning all the ways to make that happen is, well. A little mindblowing.

Besides, when they do eventually make it out the door, they quickly find that they’ve pretty much exhausted everything to do in their week in Derry. 

“This place seemed a lot bigger when we were kids,” Eddie surmises. He’s eating ice cream out of a little paper bowl, and Richie keeps thinking that if he kissed him it would probably taste like vanilla. _ That’s _ a throwback; it’s almost funny, how little things change.

“I’m surprised you think that,” Richie says, grinning. He’s opted for a cone, and there’s a sticky drip running over his knuckle that he puts his mouth to. He watches with satisfaction at Eddie tsk in disapproval as he does. “Should be about the same to you, since you’re the same size you were when we were twelve.”

“I’m average height,” Eddie replies, passing him a napkin. “The fact that you’re fucking... Big Bird’s ugly cousin isn’t my problem.”

“Eds!” The dig threatens to make him crack up, but Richie holds his composure, opting for an expression of horrified offense instead. He puts his free hand over his wounded heart. “That was _ mean_, I’m gonna start calling _ you _Trashmouth.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, scraping the last of his ice cream out of the bowl and sucking it off the spoon. There’s no one around, Richie thinks, tucked away as they are at a picnic table at the far end of the park. He gives a cursory glance around anyways while Eddie is distracted, just to make sure, then leans in.

“Mmh --” Eddie makes a surprised noise, and his lips are cold and sweet. It’s just a quick kiss, just enough for Richie to finally follow through on the impulse that’s plagued him every single summer since they were about fourteen. 

There’s a strange, haunted feeling that creeps up on him as he does: telling him that if he doesn’t do it now, he may not get the chance.

The walk back to Richie’s car is purposefully slow. They already packed the car, and now all that remains is for Richie to get behind the wheel and start driving, which now seems to be an impossible task. Eddie embraces him by the driver side door, stiff enough that any passerby might not look twice, except for how long they linger.

“Call me when you get back to California,” Eddie says softly, clearing his throat as if the weak tone could be blamed on a frog in his throat. His cheek is warm and smooth against Richie’s neck, and Richie can feel him smiling. “We can figure it out. I’m not gonna ask you to -- to be ready for anything you aren’t, but. We could figure it out.”

With his fingers trailing tenderly through dark hair, Richie can’t help but believe him. For once the benefits almost seem like they could outweigh the fear, eventually. Maybe not right away, Richie isn’t getting ahead of himself. But eventually. Hope seems like a good first step. It’s not often that you get a re-do.

“I will,” he promises. “First thing.”

Eddie hums, pleased by the answer, and steps back from him. He watches Richie climb into the car, lips curling together, then one hand grips the outer frame of Richie’s window. 

“And don’t forget me again,” he chastises, grinning as he leans in close to Richie’s face. Desperation and melancholy makes Richie brave, and he leans up to meet him. “Don’t you dare.”

“I won’t,” Richie promises again, catching Eddie’s bottom lip gently between his teeth, mumbling into his mouth before he sits back down in his seat. “You’re so annoying I don’t know how the fuck I did to begin with. Besides, we’ve got a date -- I don’t know anyone in New York, who else is gonna take me out for drinks post-show?”

“Have a safe flight, Richie.”

It’s an ache to start the car and drive away from him. Richie watches him in the rearview mirror for as long as he can, swallowing the lump in his throat as Eddie’s figure gets smaller and smaller behind him until he finally has to turn a corner.

The drive to the airport is long, and lonely, and for the second time in his life Richie finds that he isn’t happy to be leaving Derry behind him.

  


\--

  


The penthouse is dark and empty when Richie gets home, leaving his suitcase in the doorway and tossing his keys on the counter. He’d given up on having a landline ages ago, but sometimes he misses the light of the voicemail flickering at him when he wanders in from a trip -- it had been a tangible reminder of his own existence in the world, at least. Booked and busy.

There was something he wanted to do when he got home. He frowns to himself as he meanders around the space, refamiliarizing himself and trying to remember all at once. It floats in the back of his mind, that thing -- there but completely intangible, just out of his reach. Like a ribbon around his finger that he can’t remember tying.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he clicks it on to check the time. The screen flashes to life for him, and he frowns as the lockscreen is obscured by a white box: _ SIM CARD ERROR _. Swiping through he clicks into his notes app, hoping for some kind of a reminder and finding it wiped.

“Shit,” he mumbles frowning, and taps contacts. Wiped. Recent calls, photos, message history, all wiped. “Fucking damnit.”

Was that what he needed to do? He dismisses the thought as soon as it comes; he can remember checking his phone as the flight was taking off, flagrantly ignoring the lit-up request to shut it off before he eventually passed out for the last leg of the flight. That’s probably some sort of cosmic fuck you, then. A hex from a particularly rule obsessed flight attendant.

He can go into the store tomorrow and get it fixed before he has to hit the meeting with the production guys in the afternoon. There was something else, something more important...

It bothers him for about an hour before it floats off into the dark, and Richie forgets it had even been there in the first place.


	6. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love like coming home, like fitting into a puzzle, like finally being a person after years of going through the motions. Warm, healing love like sunlight, and for the first time since they walked into Neibolt together, surrounded by their friends, he knows that Eddie is going to be okay.
> 
> \--
> 
> Third time's the charm.

If the cistern was Hell, then the hospital afterwards is purgatory. 

Even after the prognosis comes back good, Richie is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Guilt makes him fear the worst: he saw it coming, grabbed tight on Eddie’s arm and pulled, but he still wasn’t fast enough. The claw caught him all the same, tearing through the flesh of his side with a sickly sound that Richie thinks he’ll hear in his dreams for the rest of his life.

As it turns out, the slash across Eddie’s torso looks bad, and it’s deep, but somehow it missed everything important. Mostly they need to ward off infection and try to do as much for the traumatized skin as they can. 

“Still,” the doctor says, frowning perplexedly as the five of them huddle in the hallway. “With a laceration like this, I can’t believe we aren’t dealing with more blood loss. He should be in much worse shape than he is.”

None of them know how to explain that it was pure force of will that kept Eddie breathing as the rubble collapsed around them. Love at its most powerful, the raw conviction right at their cores that he would live if only they could all get out together. 

_ If you believe it does. _

The hours spent under fluorescent lighting and having his nose stung by the sharp scent of antiseptic are filled mostly with Richie’s brain working through worse case scenarios. The infection spreads, Eddie dies. There’s a mistake with surgery, his body goes into shock, Eddie dies. The wound is deeper than they thought, affecting his organs, Eddie dies. 

Eddie dies, Eddie dies, Eddie dies. 

Bill, thankfully, takes the lead on interacting with the staff, on making sure they’re updated on Eddie’s progress regularly, and convincing them, somehow, that this rag tag group of filthy adults all fall under the category of family for policy purposes.

Richie thinks that if they make it out of this, he’ll have to ask what exactly he told them. 

They take turns going back to the Townhouse to shower. Richie watches Ben and Beverly leave together first, their fingers hooked tentatively together, still new, and he wants to cry. He presses fingers to his eye sockets and tries to hold onto the memories that have gradually been making their way back to him: Eddie’s hand closed over his on the console of a rental car, Eddie’s face pressed against his neck, Eddie bickering with him over travel plans.

He tries to think of those things as something to look forward to, instead of a ten year loss. 

One by one they all disappear and come back stripped of mud and in clean clothes, sometimes bearing coffee, sometimes bearing news from the outside world, until he’s the only one left who hasn’t moved from the waiting area. It’s Mike who takes it upon himself to say what all of them are thinking.

“Eddie’s not gonna let you get anywhere near him looking like that,” Mike tells him gently, one big hand closed over his shoulder. Richie can feel himself trembling under the touch. “Nothing’s changing yet. Come on, I’ll drive.”

Even stepping foot out into the daylight feels wrong, and Richie very nearly turns right back around through the automatic doors. If he’s fast enough he might be able to duck Mike and make it back to the elevator. He grits through the impulse, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, and forces himself to the car.

Once he’s under the spray of the shower, something breaks, and he’s relieved for the sound of rushing water hiding the choked sob that escapes his throat. That, or Mike is just kind enough not to draw attention to it when he emerges. Richie is grateful either way, and he returns looking halfway like a regular human being.

It seems like days of sitting in the tiny, uncomfortable chair outside of Eddie’s hospital room before they deem him stable enough for visitors. The time inches by and Richie feels the slow crawl of insanity edging up the back of his neck.

The others try to help him out, as much as they can. Ben, the knight in shining armour, brings everyone coffee and offers steadying smiles. Bev sits beside him, her head resting gently on his shoulder as her hand squeezes his. Bill charms a deck of cards out of the nurse on duty, and the five of them huddle together, making bets with the snacks Ben collects from the vending machine. Richie’s brain can barely handle go-fish, but it gives him something to do with his hands, at least, and every now and then one of them will crack a smile, and it’ll be like they’re kids again, huddled in the clubhouse.

Last but never least, Mike goes back to the inn and returns with a few of Eddie’s things: a change of clothes, his obnoxious toiletries bag, and a charger for his phone.

“He’ll be up soon,” Mike says with confidence that feels like a balm on a wound. “He’ll need them.” 

None of them mention how he’d screamed down in the caverns, clutching Eddie’s near-lifeless body to his own. Still, Richie doesn’t wonder if they know, and when the doctor finally says Eddie is ready for visitors, he can feel them crowd around him, offering strength that he doesn’t have the voice to ask for.

Eddie’s just waking up when they filter in. There’s a fresh bandage on his face, and another wrapped around his torso that peeks through the hospital gown. The bruise creeping up over his shoulder, black and green and angry makes Richie’s stomach turn, but Eddie smiles as they come in. The color seems to come back to him as Bev strokes his hair, and he laughs at Bill, who’s wiping his own eyes.

Richie himself hangs back, and he thinks that he’s never been in a room so full of love before. That’s what washes over him, even stronger than the relief he feels to see Eddie moving and smiling and awake. Love like coming home, like fitting into a puzzle, like finally being a person after years of going through the motions. Warm, healing love like sunlight, and for the first time since they walked into Neibolt together, surrounded by their friends, he knows that Eddie is going to be okay.

He’s not sure who says it, just that at some point everyone else decides to filter out. Bill hugs him on his way out the door in a way that feels deliberately knowing, and if Richie weren’t so goddamn nervous he’d have to hit him.

Eventually it’s just the two of them left, Richie sitting as close to the bed as he can physically get, Eddie looking small and fragile against stiff hospital sheets. Even as whacked out as he obviously is on hospital drugs though, there’s a kind of victory in the line of his mouth, a pride in his eyes when Richie looks at him.

Richie has seen it before; facing down bullies, facing down his mother, talking about how he had choked the leper. Eddie is proud and he’s brave, and he’s _ strong _, and more than anything Richie knows that none of those things have anything to do with any fucking clown. 

He loves him so much that it hurts. He loves him so much that he doesn’t know how he ever forgot him, how there was ever a point where Eddie wasn’t this bright thing at the center of Richie’s universe. It makes sense now -- the loneliness, the ache of missing something he couldn’t name. 

“Richie,” Eddie speaks first. His voice is a little hoarse, and Richie’s reflex is to reach out and grab his hand, as if to soothe. His skin is cold and dry; Richie runs his thumb over the bump of his knuckles, and a smile flickers across Eddie’s face. 

“Hi buddy,” Richie answers, soft and stupid. “Hey, listen, I have to--”

“You never called me, asshole.”

Richie stops short, his words dying in his throat, his thumb pausing over the top of Eddie’s hand. The breath is knocked out of him, the same _ could he could he could he _ from all those years ago back on a loop in full force.

“What?” Richie blinks, wetting his lips. “Eds --”

“Before,” Eddie continues, pausing to cough and then wincing at how it rattles his wounds. “Fuck. When we were -- we did this before. Like ten years ago. We were in Derry, both of us. You were supposed to call when you got home.” The smile on his face flickers, dimming for a second into uncertainty as Richie stares at him. “Don’t... don’t tell me you don’t remember.”

“I remember,” Richie answers, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t know if you did.”

Eddie nods, and Richie feels like he can’t _ breathe, _let alone try and figure out how to navigate that. 

“You didn’t want to mention that?” is what he manages to blurt out, which is probably a little too harsh. He doesn’t mean it that way -- it’s not his fault that Eddie ruined his whole confession mojo. “_Hey Rich, remember when we made out ten years ago? Remember when we were dating for like a whole three days?_ I-- what the fuck, man.”

“You didn’t say anything either!” Eddie protests. “I didn’t know if you knew!”

“You’re married!” Richie argues. “I’m not a _ complete _dirtbag. And besides, I’m not -- I wasn’t --”

Eddie winces a little, tilting his head a little bit as he squints uncertainly. A small noise of protest escapes his lips, an odd mix of vowels and humming. It’s enough to make Richie pause.

“What,” Richie asks suspiciously. “What’s the face.”

“I might have, uh -- I left my wife,” Eddie admits, his voice picking up speed like he can’t get the words out fast enough. “When I figured it all out. Being here, and talking to you and remembering everything... I called her like. A few days ago. Then I kind of thought we were all going to die anyways, so it didn’t really seem relevant --”

“_What. _”

“It should have happened a long time ago,” he says, leaning his head back against the pillow and sighing. He closes his eyes like the strain of the conversation has taken a toll, and Richie almost feels bad for him until he continues. “So it’s really only half your fault.”

“_My _ fault,” Richie parrots in disbelief.

“Does this mean I have to see your show for real?” Eddie frowns, as if he didn’t just foil Richie’s coming out attempt and set his old life on fire in one fell swoop. “Because that might really kill me.” 

Unbelievable.

“Oh you’re gonna see every single show I ever do from here on out,” Richie tells him. There’s a bright, joyful relief swelling up in his chest that threatens to choke the words, though. He’s moving to stand, his hand holding tightly to Eddie’s now. The tears that have been threatening to overtake him all day are leaking out, and he laughs shakily, bending down to press their foreheads together. “Get ready, buddy.”

“If you ever fucking leave me in Derry again...” Eddie starts, and Richie puts hands on either side of his face, kissing him before he can finish the sentence.

  


\--

  


This time when Richie pulls out of the main strip, Eddie is in the passenger seat next to him. There’s a thick bandage wrapped around his torso, and the back of Richie’s car is absolutely stuffed with all of his stupid luggage, and Richie thinks this might be the happiest he’s ever been in his life.

“Do you think I’m going to get lead poisoning from this?” Eddie frowns, lifting his arm up to show off a scrawl of the Losers names and numbers in permanent marker. One last safeguard against forgetting, a matching set of six. Like signatures on a cast. “You know, like it leaks through your skin into your bloodstream. My immune system’s already compromised from the antibiotics they’ve got me on, I’m probably super susceptible.”

“They don’t put lead in _ sharpie, _ ” Richie snorts. “Although surviving an evil clown attack just to die of permanent marker related complications would be _ hilarious. _Like, I’d absolutely have to do a bit on it if that happened, respect for the dead would be right out the window.” He reaches over to where Eddie seems to be making a move towards the radio and bats at his hands. “Paws off, Kaspbrak. I have the driving mix queue’d up, don’t fuck with it.”

“You can’t write the clown into your routine, psycho,” Eddie says. “Or scratch that -- you can’t tell someone else to write the clown into your routine. They’d commit you, and you’re fucked if you think I’m stepping within fifty miles of whatever gross asylum you’d be locked up in.”

“Hey shut up,” Richie says suddenly, reaching out himself to turn the music down and pointing ahead out the windshield. “I wanna remember this. Look.”

They’re at the town limits now, the road stretching out in front of them towards the highway exit. Richie checks his rearview mirror, then knocks his signal on, the tires crunching along the gravel as he pulls off onto the shoulder. 

“Come on,” he says, unbuckling and opening his door. “C’mere, I want a picture.”

Eddie’s eyebrows are raised as he follows him, hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie when he approaches. The road is empty on either side, and the air is cooling into autumn. Behind Richie, _ You are now leaving Derry! _stares at them in peeling red letters.

“Really?” 

“Come here,” Richie grins, reaching out to tug Eddie closer by the sweater until they’re back to chest. “Let me have a moment!”

Pulling out his phone, he swipes into his front camera. Eddie’s body is warm against his, and even though he’s making a show of being long suffering, he indulges, tucking in close for the shot and shooting Richie a look that’s fond underneath the faux annoyance.

Richie reaches out in front of them, slinging his other arm around Eddie’s shoulders and tilts the phone, making sure the sign is in view before he snaps a selfie.

“Proof that we made it,” Richie says, admiring the picture for a second before sliding the phone back into his pocket. “Third time’s the charm, right?”

Eddie squeezes his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this now has a sequel!
> 
> thank you for reading and for your kind comments. your feedback means the world to me!
> 
> -
> 
> follow me  
twitter: @unfinishedduet  
tumblr: @richtoziers


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